


you could make a life outtakes (2017)

by youcouldmakealife



Series: ycmal outtakes [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:25:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 161
Words: 81,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: A collection of snippets originally posted on tumblr based in the general universe presented inyou could make a lifeand its companion series. Canon and AU within, ranging from G-rated gen to explicit.





	1. Jake/Georgie/Robbie/Anton/or any of the USA boys winning something representing their country

Jake’s not going to lie — Worlds is kind of awesome and kind of sucks at the same time. Like, would he prefer to be in the playoffs right now? Yeah, for sure, and he sort of hates the media for even asking that, because if he says yes, he’s insulting the tourney or America or whatever, and if he says no he either doesn’t care about the Panthers or he’s a liar. He went with a Dave drafted, pretty foolproof answer.

“You’re a traitor to America and also you don’t care about the Panthers,” Allie informs him.

“Wow,” Jake says. “Wow.”

“Just telling you what bullshit’s going around so you don’t go looking,” Allie says. “You’re rocking it, keep it up, Jakey.”

“That’s the plan,” Jake says.

And they do, they rock it. They go down to Sweden in the Semis, but they beat Canada for Bronze, which honestly might just feel better than winning Gold when it comes down to it.

“If I was there you wouldn’t have won,” David says after, and Jake can practically hear the pout through the phone.

“For sure, babe,” Jake says. “Sorry you’re stuck doing playoffs.”

He can hear David smile too. “Congratulations,” he says. “Really.”

“Can’t be too proud, since I wouldn’t have won if you were here,” Jake says. “Or, other theory, I would have extra won with Robbie and Georgie on my side.”

“Canada would have Crane in net,” David says dismissively. “And probably Matthews on the roster too. We wouldn’t lose to Finland this time.”

“It’s super unfair how good your team is,” Jake says, and he swears David’s smile gets bigger.

“Congratulations,” David repeats, soft.

“Thanks,” Jake says. “Going to wear my Bronze?”

“Not a chance,” David says immediately.

“Come on,” Jake wheedles.

“I’m hanging up,” David threatens, but he doesn’t.


	2. Kiro/Emily; money where your mouth is

“I can’t believe you told your fucking team you were good at head,” Emily says. “Seriously?”

“Am I not?” Kir asks.

“Not the point!” Emily says. “So not the point!”

Kir doesn’t look even remotely abashed.

“You are the worst human,” Emily says. “The worst.”

“You think I am the best human,” Kir says.

Unfortunately this is true. And not something she’s going to take back. Also, the whole appalled thing is currently warring with the fact that being pregnant seems to have put her sex drive into…hyperdrive. yes, that’s repetitive, yes, that’s also true.

“Put your money where your mouth is,” Emily says.

“Or my mouth where my mouth should be?” Kir says, shooting her this winning grin, like that could make up for all the bad that was.

“Oh my god,” Emily says. She tries not to laugh, because laughing encourages him. “Kirill, no.”

“Kirill yes,” Kir says.

“I don’t even want you to go down on me now,” Emily says.

Kir raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously,” Emily says.

Kir raises the other eyebrow.

“Being able to independently raise your eyebrows is not sexy,” Emily says.

“Yes it is,” he says confidently.

It’s not, Emily would like to stand by this, but like — bragging or not, he is undeniably good with his mouth. Not shocking, considering how much he uses it.

“Okay, fine,” she says. “You can go down on me.”

“Thank you,” Kir says solemnly, like she’s just awarded him a great honor.

“Oh shut up,” she says, then cuffs him around the head.


	3. Robbie, David, Orange; Devil Cat

Like, Robbie totally knew Volkie had a cat, but he didn’t expect the cat, if you know what he means? Like, they take one step into Volkie’s place, and suddenly boom, cat, right there. Black cats are bad luck. True facts.

“Kay so,” Robbie says. “Here’s the thing — I’m totally allergic to cats.”

The cat, already way too close, is eyeing him like it’s about to pounce.

“No you’re not,” Volkie says. “Liar.”

“Kiro,” Chaps says. “You can’t just—”

“Okay, cats are the devil,” Robbie says. “Please keep the devil cat away from me.”

“Robbie,” Chaps says, turning the same exasperated look on him. “Did you lie about being allergic? You can’t just—”

“I’m allergic to everything about them,” Robbie says. “Also I’m just going to wait outside or something.”

“Robbie,” David says again, but Robbie backs out the front door. Slowly. He’s pretty positive from past experience that if you move fast, the cats attack. It’s fucking sweltering outside, especially in his suit, which is not nearly as breathable as it should be, Robbie failed at packing, but Robbie will take sweating it out over leaving himself vulnerable to the cat.

“Orange has never hurt anyone,” Chaps says, following him out.

“That survived to tell,” Robbie says.

David looks like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. Still, victory. Wanting to smile is half the battle with Chaps.

“Is there a reason—” David says.

“I had a traumatic cat experience,” Robbie says, and then when David looks concerned, like Robbie had actually been traumatize _d_ or something. “My aunt’s cat was mean, okay. He didn’t like me. We don’t talk to her anymore.”

“Over her _cat_?” David asks.

“Also because she divorced my uncle, which…maybe had more to do with it, but whatever,” Robbie says. “Cats suck. The end.”

“Cats do not suck,” David says, then, “ _You_ suck.”

“Did you just tell me I _suck_?” Robbie asks.

“Yes,” David says, with this whole ‘what’re you going to do about it?’ swagger.

“Dude, I fucking love you,” Robbie says, and throws an arm around his shoulder.


	4. Robbie/Georgie; date night

Robbie’s bored. Robbie’s bored and Georgie types like a two-fingered psycho, and has been frowning at his laptop for the last half hour instead of paying attention to Robbie. Which like, that’s fine, school shit, Robbie gets it, but it’s date night.

“It’s date night,” Robbie says, and Georgie holds up a finger then continues to tap tap tap for a moment before he stops.

“Did you just ‘one second’ me?” Robbie asks, appalled.

“I needed to finish what I was writing before I forgot it,” Georgie says. “What were you saying?”

“It’s date night,” Robbie mutters.

“Since when do we have date night?” Georgie asks.

“Since now,” Robbie says.

“Is like…every night date night, then?” Georgie asks. “Because you kind of sleep here every night.”

“Maybe,” Robbie says. “You saying you don’t want date night?”

“This paper’s due on Tuesday, babe,” Georgie says.

“It’s Thursday,” Robbie says.

“And we have a game, practice, and I have a test on Monday I need to study for,” Georgie says. “I’m almost done the first draft, give me like twenty?”

“Fine,” Robbie says, then sets the timer on his phone before tooling around. When it goes off and Georgie shows no signs of slowing down, Robbie reaches into his pocket for spare change. He manages to get two pennies down the back of Georgie’s shirt and a nickel bouncing off his ear before Georgie tackles him onto the bed.

“You said twenty minutes,” Robbie says into Georgie’s pillow, kicking back defensively. “I gave you twenty minutes.”

“Before you pelted me with loose change,” Georgie says, and then goes kind of dead weight on Robbie, which is — Georgie is not light, that is a lot of weight.

“I’m sorry,” Robbie says after Georgie doesn’t let up. “Let me up?”

“No,” Georgie says. “It’s date night, we’re romantically cuddling.”

“You’re cuddling the oxygen out of my body,” Robbie says, and when Georgie still doesn’t move, “Free Robbie Lombardi!”

Georgie, predictably, laughs, and Robbie uses his chance to get enough leverage to poke him in his ticklish side, freeing himself when Georgie starts to squirm.

“I don’t like date night,” Robbie decides. “Let’s quit that.”

“So you’re going to let me write my paper, then?” Georgie asks, with an insulting amount of suspicion.

“Sure,” Robbie says, then when Georgie gets back to it, sets the timer for another twenty minutes and gathers his dimes.


	5. David, Orange; cat whisperer

Not a kitten,” Kiro says unnecessarily, because the cat currently winding its way around David’s legs is — big seems like an understatement. She has to be twenty pounds at least.

“You said you got a kitten,” David says.

“All cats are kittens,” Kiro says with a wave of his hand.

“That’s not true,” David says. “Where’s Orange?” Usually when David comes she’s the first to greet him, and the moment he sits down she ends up on his lap. Kiro keeps pouting that David’s her favourite, and David thought he was being ridiculous, but after seeing her with other people, he thinks it might be true. Orange likes him. He’s not sure what he did exactly to make Orange like him, but she does.

“Now she’s not only child, she’s been hiding under bed, sulking,” Kiro says. “Like a baby!” he adds, louder, like Orange is listening, like she can even understand.

“Oh,” David says, a little disappointed.

“Want to say hi?” Kiro asks.

“Oh no, that’s—” David says, but Kiro’s already walking to his bedroom, and David follows.

“Hello pouty,” Kiro says. “Davidson is here to see you.”

“Hi Orange,” David says, feeling completely ridiculous, and even more ridiculous when he’s kind of upset she doesn’t come out from under the bed. Like, she’s a cat. She doesn’t understand words, whatever Kiro thinks.

“I leave you alone together,” Kiro says. “Sit on floor, maybe she comes to see you?”

“I’m not sitting on the floor,” David argues, but Kiro leaves without acknowledging him, and after a minute, he lowers himself to sit on the floor beside the bed.

“Hi,” David repeats, and he’s glad there’s no one here to see him talking to Orange. “Do you want to come out?”

There’s no response, and David sighs, ready to get up, when Orange’s head pops out from under the bed, then the rest of her, and she settles herself in his lap. “I need to get up,” David says, after a few minutes, but Orange just purrs like a motor and David figures he can sit here for a little while longer.


	6. Quincy, Oleg; No.

“Is it me?” Dylan asks. “Am I a gay black hole or something?”

Oleg blinks.

“Okay, yes, I realise how that sounded,” Dylan says.

“Good,” Oleg says. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

“It didn’t sound homophobic or anything, though, did it?” Dylan asks. “If it did I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It just sounded —” Oleg pauses.

“Dirty?” Dylan asks.

Oleg nods shortly.

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “But seriously man, this team. Between Chaps and —” he bites off what he’s saying.

“I know about Lombardi and Dineen,” Oleg says, with this additional look like ‘do you think I’m stupid, sir?’

“Oh good,” Dylan says. “Want to help me with that shit?”

“No,” Oleg says.

“Fuck,” Dylan says. “Please?”

“No,” Oleg repeats.

“It’s fucking with the room,” Dylan says. “Something’s got to be done here.”

Oleg gives him another look that clearly states ‘do it yourself, then’. He’s really eloquent with the looks. “No,” Oleg repeats, one more time.

“Kay, but the Chaps and Lourdes thing, that’s — cool, right?” Dylan says. “Chaps is okay? No drama llama ding dong?”

“I have no idea what that means,” Oleg says. “But he’s fine.”

“You let me know if that changes, okay, I worry about that kid,” Dylan says.

Oleg gets this mulish expression, like he wants to say ‘no’ again.

“Or you deal with it, as long as everything’s fine!” Dylan says, putting his hands up. He gets it. Vets have guys they consider ‘theirs’, and Chaps and Oleg have played together for a long time.

“Everything’s fine,” Oleg says.

“Well,” Dylan says. “At least that’s one less thing to worry about.”


	7. Robbie/Georgie, Dineens; suck it

One day, Georgie’s going to beat Robbie at Madden, and when he does, he’s decided he’s going to be insufferable about it. Unfortunately, today Robbie wins, and is insufferable about it. Georgie has zero clue why he loves him, and even less clue why he’s smiling when Robbie yells,“Suck it,” throwing his controller on the floor and very narrowly avoiding putting his knee right into Georgie’s balls as he scrambles from his spot on the couch to fistbump Will. “Suck it loser Dineens, three straight.”

“I’m a Dineen,” Will says loyally.

“You’re not a loser Dineen,” Robbie says. “You’re a winner, little guy.”

“You’re calling someone _else_ little guy?” Dickie asks. Dickie is not smiling at Robbie.  Dickie’s kind of a sore loser, honestly. 

Robbie cheerfully gives Dickie the finger then does a loop around the room with his shirt over his head like he just won the World Cup. He does that a lot.

Georgie’s kind of concerned about how seriously Robbie takes video games, and he mentions this.

Robbie makes a derisive sounds. “Says the _loser,_ ” he says, and then bumps Will’s outstretched fist.

“Your boyfriend’s a dick,” Dickie mutters. “Just so you know.”

“I’ll be on your team next time, Richard,” Robbie says.

Dicky scowls deeper. “Don’t call me Richard, _Roberto_.”

“So me and William over here again next time?” Robbie asks. “Your funeral.”

“I didn’t _say_ that,” Dickie says.

“How come you’re never on _my_ team?” Georgie asks.

“It’s not nice to team up on children,” Robbie says, and barely has time to brace himself before Dickie and Will carry out a coordinated assault.

“This isn’t fair,” Robbie says, muffled, from somewhere under Dickie. “You’re all bigger than me. Which I have to say is extra unfair, in your case, William, didn’t you just start puberty last week?”

Will looks up at Georgie.

“Go for it, dude,” Georgie says, and whatever no doubt dire threats Robbie has in response to his permission are inaudible under the pillow Will smothers him with.

“Hey,” mom calls down from the kitchen. “What have I told you boys about killing our guests?”

Will reflexively lets go of the pillow, which is a mistake, because that’s the moment Robbie chooses to spring on him.

“He’s not a guest, he’s a monster,” Dickie yells upstairs, before going to save Will from the headlock Robbie has him in. “Little help, Georgie?”

Georgie looks at Will’s red face, then at Robbie, who catches his eye with this look like ‘try it and you are so not convincing me to jerk you off in the laundry room later’.

Georgie sighs and then goes to save his little brothers from the tyranny of his boyfriend.

*

“No way,” Robbie whispers that night. “You turned on me.”

Georgie doesn’t even need to give him a pleading look. They haven’t seen each other in three weeks, and beyond a hug hello and a kiss interrupted way too soon by Dickie’s gagging noises, the closest thing they’ve had to contact was Robbie insistently elbowing him in the side to throw him off his game, and Robbie’s ankle tucked between his feet at the dinner table. Robbie’s cracking before he even finishes saying no.

“Fine,” Robbie says. “I’ll follow you down. But you’re blowing me.”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up and go stealth fuck already, we all know you’re doing it,” Dickie groans from his bed, and blindly throws his pillow right in Robbie’s face.

It’s too dark to see if Robbie’s gone scarlet, but Georgie’s pretty sure he has. “You heard the man,” Robbie says with fake bravado, but when he’s braced against the dryer five minutes later, his cheeks are still hot and flushed under Georgie’s hands.


	8. Seb/Simon; celebration

“You,” Simon says. “Are a ridiculous man.”

Considering Simon is currently wearing a glittery tiara and weaving on the sidewalk as if it was a boat in a storm, Seb thinks he shouldn’t be throwing stones. Seb is also starting to doubt that they’re going to succeed at their quest for appropriately greasy pizza.

“Says the man wearing a tiara,” Seb says.

Simon’s hands immediately reach for his head, and he pulls it off, frowning at it like it’s offended him.

“Where did this come from?” he asks.

The tiara, a gift to Seb from the team as consensus third round MVP, was perhaps very, very carefully placed on top of Simon’s head when he was in an intense and surprisingly passionate discussion with Ricky about fishing. Considering the long-suffering sighs Simon exhales every time they go fishing on the lake, Seb would have assumed he’d avoid the topic, but apparently he has feelings about lures. Passionate feelings. Ricky saw Seb do it, but Ricky didn’t even allow himself a smirk, careful not to tip Simon off. Ricky is an excellent assistant captain.

“You are a _ridiculous_ man,” Simon says, which Seb supposes means he’s been found out.

“I think it looks charming on you,” Seb says. He tries to put it back on Simon’s head, but the second time Simon clumsily rebuffs him he shrugs and puts it on himself. He imagines it looks charming on him too.

“How do you drink like this without dying?” Simon asks after half a block, looking increasingly nauseated. 

Thirty pounds likely make a considerable difference, but he doubts Simon would be satisfied with the answer. “Practice,” he says.

“How do you play hockey if you’re drinking like this?” Simon says. “How are you not _dead_?” 

“Well,” Seb says. “I don’t usually drink as much as you just did.”

Drinking in moderation is fine during the season, perhaps beyond moderation every few weeks, even the downright bacchanalia All-Star Weekend becomes, but there really isn’t a comparison to the kind of drinking at the end of a playoff round, win or lose. It seems like the further you get the more you’re required to drink each round, however. Seb suspects winning the Cup would kill him.

He’ll accept it.

Simon hadn’t been able to make the first two rounds, tax season irritatingly coinciding with playoffs, but he made it for the third, and he’ll stay through the end, win or…win. Seb’s not willing to think about losing.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Seb says.

Simon throws up on the sidewalk. Also Seb’s shoes. 

“I’m still glad you’re here,” Seb says. “Even if those were Ferragamos.”

“Serves you right,” Simon mumbles, wiping his mouth. “Do I want to know how much those cost?”

“No, my dear,” Seb says. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy another pair.”

Simon gives him a baleful look.

“I’ll buy you a pair too,” Seb says. “We can match.”

“Please don’t buy me five hundred dollar shoes,” Simon says.

Seb laughs.

“Seven hundred dollars?” Simon says.

“Oh Si,” Seb says.

“A thousand dollars,” Simon says. “Please tell me they weren’t more than a thousand dollars.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Seb says.

“Two thousand?” Simon asks. 

“How are you still on me about money even drunk?” Seb asks, and carefully places the tiara back in Simon’s hair while Simon stares at his shoes, presumably assuming the longer he looks, the more likely he is to figure out how much they cost.

“Less than two thousand, right?” Simon says hopefully. The tiara glitters and so do his eyes, and Seb has never been more fond of another person in his entire life.

“Right,” Seb says, then when Simon looks gratified, ruins it by adding, “Each.”


	9. David/Jake; only

It’s Kiro’s fault, though David knows it’s an accident, that Kiro didn’t mean to. And he knows that even without Kiro sounding a little miserable on the phone.

“I thought he knew,” Kiro says.

“He didn’t,” David says.

“Well I know that now,” Kiro mutters.

“It’s okay,” David says. It’s not, really — it’s mortifying, especially since he knows that Jake’s been with at least…he doesn’t really want to think about it but more than David has, obviously. He wonders if Jake’s feeling sorry for him, or thinks it’s pathetic, or —

“He looked like he was hit by a shovel,” Kiro says, like he’s reading David’s thoughts. Sometimes David thinks he can.

“Oh,” David says. “I’m not sure —”

“In a good way,” Kiro says. “A shovel full of joy.”

“I don’t think you can be hit by a shovel in a good way,” David says.

“You did not see his face,” Kiro says. “The shovel brought happy news. He liked the shovel. The shovel was his friend.”

“I’m confused,” David says. “Can you explain without talking about shovels?”

“No,” Kiro says, infuriatingly. “I like my shovel explanation.”

“I can’t believe you told him,” David says.

“I’m sorry,” Kiro says. “Really.”

“A shovel full of joy?” David asks.

“Most joy,” Kiro confirms.

*

Jake’s not exactly an early bird, and neither is Volkie, but somehow they’re two of the first people at breakfast this morning, and it makes  more sense to sit together than bug Drury, who’s frowning at his phone so deeply his eyebrows are touching. Jake genuinely likes Volkie, now that he’s established that David isn’t like, in love with him or whatever, and there’s still a bit of jealousy for the way David is around him, but what kind of jerk would Jake be if he got jealous of David having a best friend? A big one. Massive jerk. So he likes Volkie.

Volkie’s kind of a troll, though. A little like Gally, but way more subtle about it, which makes it more dangerous. Gally, you see him coming from twenty feet away because he’s banging pots and pans. Volkie, you don’t know he’s there until he taps you on the shoulder and freaks you out. Parey’s looking extra murderous lately, thanks to the two of them, keeps muttering about having his own kid to take care of and not being a babysitter and being too old for this.

So like, Jake knows something’s coming, that this isn’t going to be a nice normal breakfast, but he gets halfway through his omelet before Volkie mentions David, which isn’t trolling, exactly, just. Checking in, Jake guesses.

“Davidson,” Volkie says, right on cue.

This has to be the third time this month Volkie’s talked to him about David, and he knows it would be way more if Volkie was alone with him more often, because he never does it if other people are around. Jake gets it — Volkie’s looking out for his buddy, which Jake 100% appreciates, like in general but also because David needs people looking after him. Jake looks out for David too, as much as he can, as David lets him, but it’s not like he can protect David from like, him. He’s doing his best to make sure he isn’t someone David needs protecting from, but he knows he can’t exactly guarantee that, so he’s totally cool with Volkie double-checking on that.

“Davidson,” Jake repeats, and Volkie smiles a little.

The first conversation was about whether Jake was over being ‘irrationally’ jealous of Volkie — yes, but he stands by it not being irrational, okay, how many people make David smile like that? He wasn’t dumb for assuming. The second one was about how much long-distance sucks balls, and was less Volkie grilling him than the both of them feeling sorry for themselves and each other. Jake’s kind of curious what three will be.

“Is it bothering, being the only?” Volkie asks.

Jake frowns, confused. “Like, monogamous?” he asks, then, quickly, “No way, if David’s asking you that or anything, I don’t want it any other way, seriously.”

“Not that,” Volkie says, looking at Jake like he’s dumb.

“Then what?” Jake asks.

“Only,” Volkie says. “Like.”

He doesn’t continue, and Jake frowns at him. “Dude, I can’t answer you if you don’t explain it.”

“It’s hard in English,” Volkie says, sounding frustrated.

“Sorry,” Jake says. It is for him too sometimes, and he doesn’t even have to put it in another language or anything. “I’ll wait.”

Joe and Gally have come in, but Joe’s steered them to another table, one far enough that there still isn’t anyone close enough to listen to them. Jake doesn’t know if he’s the best or the worst. Gally cranes his head to look curiously over at Jake and Volkie, and Joe smacks him on the back of the head without pausing eating. Best, Jake decides.

“I know you are more experienced,” Volkie says finally, and Jake looks back over at him. “Is it pressure?”

“Like, because he hasn’t had another boyfriend?” Jake asks. He doesn’t know that for sure, but it’s not surprising, with how cautious David is. “I haven’t either, though, not really.”

“Another anything,” Volkie says.

“Wait,” Jake says. “What?”

“Is it pressure?” Volkie repeats.

“What does that mean, another anything?” Jake asks.

Volkie suddenly looks very, very guilty.

“Like _anything_?” Jake asks.

“I see Gally,” Volkie says, half standing.

“Nu uh,” Jake says, grabbing his wrist. “What’s anything mean?”

“Conversation for Davidson,” Volkie says, shaking his hand off. “I’m in trouble now. Goodbye.”

He’s made it toward Gally in like three giant steps, and Jake can’t exactly continue the conversation there. He wouldn’t even be able to get Volkie away from there without Gally following, because he has a nose for gossip. And this isn’t really, like — the conversations Jake has with Volkie about David aren’t the kind that are anyone else’s business, and especially not —

The _only_?

Parey sits down at the table across from him, eyeing Volkie’s discarded breakfast before nudging it aside. “Stop smiling like that, you look like a psycho.”

“Good morning, Parey,” Jake says.

“I don’t want to know,” Parey mutters, then digs into breakfast.


	10. Marc/Dan; inexhaustible

An excerpt from Marc Lapointe's autobiography:

 

I was always a little sceptical about children. Children as something for me, but also children in general. Handed many children in the course of my duties — those duties generally being signing my name somewhere upon their person — I cannot say I experienced the soft-eyed awe that many of my teammates felt when handed a child, that reverential care. It became evident early that Dan and I differed on this point, which did not particularly surprise me. Dan is a born caretaker; of me, but also in general. Dan is at his best when he is caring for someone else, and the best thing about Dan is that he always is.

Children were important to Dan, and he was important to me, so while I’d never seriously given them much thought, at least in the context of parenthood, I was amenable to the idea.

Amenable. As if it was choosing a sofa or an apartment. I was a fool. Had I known the responsibility I likely would have balked.

It would have been the worst mistake of my life.

We tried adoption first. Through the Quebec system, as I was basically guaranteed a place with the Canadiens through retirement, if not in written contract, in handshakes and fan sentiment, and Dan was facing the option of retirement or short contracts in places he wasn’t particularly eager to go. 

Four to eight years was the waiting list, because I was insistent upon a newborn, uncomfortable even then, unsure I was capable of loving a child that wasn’t mine (I’m getting ahead of myself, but Leon promptly dispelled any notions I had about this. If you read this, my Lion, know that there is no one in the world I love more than you). Dan was devastated. I was quietly, guiltily relieved. 

Surrogacy was the second route, and Dan insisted that the child carry my DNA. He never said as much, but I’m sure he was aware of that fear I held, that if the child wasn’t mine it would not be, well. Mine. Dan had no similar qualms, I knew that also without asking.

I don’t mean to, but I think I hoard my love jealously, afraid I’ll run out, afraid that I’ll spread it too thin, that I will not be able to love those who deserve it most as much as they do deserve. 

Dan’s love is inexhaustible. 

~~~~

Dan was, of course, eager to hold our child. I was a little more hesitant — this is perhaps an understatement — and excused myself from the room, ostensibly to find my parents, who were in the waiting room, and inform them of the successful birth. I called Ulf. It was the middle of the night in Stockholm, where he spent his offseasons, and rather than answer with a hello, he made an angry noise into the phone.

I perhaps deserved that.

Ulf listened to me try unsuccessfully hide my panic for a few minutes before he informed me he’d rather sleep than enable me, and seemed to care little when I threatened to rescind the title of godfather (it was in fact an empty threat, and Charlie’s godfather he remains, a title I think matters far less to either of them than the ‘Uncle Ulf’ bestowed by her). I delayed further by finding my parents and relaying the news, but eventually I had no remaining gambits.

Dan gave me a look when I returned, a look that told me he was entirely aware of what I had been doing, and he was unimpressed but too incandescently happy to dwell upon it. I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve seen that look on his face — the joy, not being unimpressed with me, which I see as often as I deserve it, which I think we’d both agree is not infrequently — our wedding, Charlotte’s birth, cut with the utter hysteria we shared when Leon was dropped upon us by the proverbial stork. It’s contagious, and every time I see it I’m reminded of the moment we met, because in a Leafs jersey so new it creaked, he’d had that look on his face when he took my hand and promised me we’d be the best of friends.

Dan’s always been the smarter of the two of us. I’m sure he’s laughing, reading this, but it’s true.

And here was a prime example: preemptively brushing away all the protests I was considering as he approached with the tiny, alien bundle, he carefully placed her in my arms, stepped back. I did not trust myself with her, but he did.

“Our daughter,” he said.

And she was.

And she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.

And when I looked up at him, I knew without looking that my expression must have mirrored his completely.


	11. Thomas/Anton; crank that

Anton would like to offer this public service announcement: never make a bet with Thomas Vincent, and also never forget he is actually evil deep down.

Serge blinks. Serge blinks again.

“Are you seeing this?” he asks Joseph.

“I’m filming it,” Joseph says immediately, and Serge manages to tear his eyes away long enough to glance over to where Deps, is, as promised, holding his phone out. “I’m going to hold it over Tony’s head for the rest of his life.”

“What is he even _doing_?” Serge asks, mystified.

“I believe it’s what the kids call ‘Soulja Boy’, old man,” Grayson contributes.

“Despite what you may think, I am not actually decrepit enough not to recognise that,” Serge says dryly. “Despite the fact it’s been about a billion years since the kids actually cared about it. Fuck, I think _I_ was a kid.”

Joseph snorts, but Serge doesn’t encourage the inevitable chirp about him being older than God by responding. 

“I didn’t know you could do it so—”

“Badly?” Deps asks.

“Aggressively?” Grays tries.

“Both,” Serge says. “Both of those things.”

Tony looks downright homicidal, and judging by the fact that the only reason Vinny hasn’t fallen on his ass, he’s laughing so hard, is because Denisovich is literally holding him up, Serge suspects he knows who is responsible for this.

“Bet?” Grayson asks.

“Mating dance?” Deps asks.

Serge can’t hold back a snort.

“I haven’t decided whether I’m going to use this as blackmail or hand it straight to our social media guys,” Deps says thoughtfully.

“The second one,” Grayson says immediately. “Please, the second one.”

“We’ll see what Tony offers me first,” Deps says, then yells in English, “Yeah, Petrov, crank that!” and Vinny actually falls on his ass despite Denny’s restraining grip when Tony incorporates two middle fingers into whatever the fuck he’s trying to do.


	12. David/Jake, Lourdes family; gross

“This is the grossest thing that has ever happened to me,” Nat says.

Jake looks absolutely apoplectic, and Allie can’t hold in a laugh. “What are you more angry about right now, the post or the fact that Nat just called David gross?” Allie asks.

“David’s not gross!” Jake says.

“I didn’t say David was gross!” Nat says. “This time. Just that people thinking I would ever date him is gross.”

“That isn’t better!” Jake says, looking actually mad.

“Is it just me or is it kind of hilarious that apparently even standing within five feet of David with a vagina is news?” Allie says.

The picture’s a little more compromising — it’s like half a foot, maybe, and Nat’s got her arm linked in David’s. It’s from the charity gala Jake whined them all into going to last week, and Allie’s still kind of shocked that David agreed to go. Nat had insisted on wearing these tottering, dangerously high stilettos, because ‘when else am I going to’, and had ended up spending half the time grabbing whoever was closest — David, in the case of the picture — so she didn’t tip right off them. Allie’s like ninety-nine percent sure that if the picture had been from a little further back Jake would be in it, which would be more of a story, because despite the fact that David and Jake haven’t even tried to hide their friendship — the whole torrid romance part of it, yeah, but not that they hang out — hockey media stubbornly clings to the old rivalry bullshit, because she guesses ‘two famous hockey players do not in fact hate each other’ is boring.

“‘David Chapman and unidentified female companion get cozy’,” Allie says with relish, and Nat puts her face in her hands.

“David’s never going to go anywhere with me again,” Jake says sadly.

“No,” Allie says. “No he is not.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Jake says.

“You came to the wrong person for reassuring,” Allie says.

“So fucking gross,” Nat moans into her hands.

“You both suck,” Jake sulks.


	13. Sven/Yvette; guileless

“No,” Yvette says when she walks in the door to find Sven on the couch. “No, Sven.” He’s freshly back from a weeklong road trip, and typically she’d greet him a little differently, but this is more important.

“What?” Sven says, looking guileless, which she knows succeeds more often than not for him. She’s seen it fool his teammates, his coaching staff, the media, and referees. And that’s only firsthand; she’s sure he’s succeeded with it countless other times she hasn’t personally witnessed. She, however, has not been fooled by that look from the night that she met him. To this day she thinks that might have been the reason he asked her to marry him.

There are certainly worse reasons to get married than finding someone to call you on your bullshit.

“Hockey is not educational,” she says firmly.

Sven looks indignant. “Hockey teaches teamwork and —”

“Canadian Children’s Museum,” Yvette overrides. “I was on the verge of confirming the date when I get called in, do you know why?”

“Please tell me,” Sven says, smiling now.

“Apparently,” she says. “Apparently the Senators have so very _generously_ invited the first grade classes to visit their facilities. Frederic was so _grateful_ , and could I _please_ thank my fiance.”

“You’re welcome,” Sven says.

“You’re not thanked!” she says.

“ _Frederic_ said thank you,” Sven counters.

“I do not,” she says. “Sven, you can’t just — do you know what it’ll look like if I’m given favouritism simply because—”

“We do these all the time, ‘vette,” Sven says.  “Also, Sami’s oldest is in the other first grade class, remember?”

“What?” Yvette asks.

“He asked,” Sven says, shrugging a shoulder. “Not me.”

“Why didn’t you—” Yvette says, then has her answer from the quirk of his mouth. She throws her hands up. “You’re infuriating!”

“Thank you,” Sven says solemnly.


	14. Quincy, Crane; get some licks in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence (but against Nazis, so...)

Of all the calls Dylan expects to get at two in the morning, one to bail out one of his players is — actually unfortunately not that surprising. Who he’s bailing out and why, a little moreso.

“I would have pegged you as the kind of guy not to get caught, Dev,” Dylan says, when he’s driving him back to his billet. He doesn’t blame Devon for calling him instead of waking them up, in fact he’s grateful he didn’t. Larry’s got enough to deal with, between three kids and a full time job with them to start. Only one affected by Dev calling him is Dylan, and Lea for the five seconds between her waking up to the phone and falling back asleep.

“I wouldn’t be, if it was premeditated,” Dev says, because goalies are terrifying.

“Want to walk me through it?” Dylan asks.

“Guy was a fucking asshole, I punched him,” Devon says.

“I kind of got most of that,” Dylan says. “But dude, you can’t just punch—”

“He started going on about the ‘superior’ race and drains on society,” Dev says. “Fuck’s sake, he literally used the words ‘final solution’.”

“I mean, I understand your—” Dylan says.

“While getting right in the face of a black girl,” Devon continues, like Dylan hadn’t said anything. “In what I construed as a threatening manner.”

“You tell your arresting officer that?” Dylan asks.

“Obviously,” Dev says, jutting his chin out.

“You get some good licks in?” Dylan asks.

“I got all the licks in,” Dev says. “All of them. Stupid Nazi face bruised my hand, though.”

“Don’t you fucking dare tell management I said this,” Dylan says, “but good on you, kid.”

“I thought so too,” Dev says a little smugly, and Dylan takes a hand off the wheel for a moment to ruffle his hair, laughing when Dev, frowning, tries to put it back in place.


	15. Luke/Andreas; efficient

“You’re packing wrong,” Andreas says, and Luke stops and gives him what he hopes is the most outraged expression he’s ever seen. Considering Andreas’ job, though, it isn’t likely.

“I pack a lot,” Luke says. “Like. A lot.” A lot could even be an understatement there. “I think I know what I’m doing.”

Andreas is smiling, just a little.

Luke puts down his shirt. “You’re about to prove me wrong, aren’t you,” he says. It isn’t even a question.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” Andreas says.

“Go right ahead,” Luke says, and prepares for Andreas maybe finding space for one extra pair of underwear or something and calling it a victory.

“What the fuck,” he says ten minutes later, when everything’s packed and his suitcase still has a third of the space left.

Andreas is smiling again, that little smile that Luke can’t handle.

“How the fuck,” Luke says.

“It’s simple physics,” Andreas says.

“I don’t actually need to know how the fuck,” Luke quickly clarifies.

Andreas’ smile broadens, and that one Luke really can’t handle.

“How do you know everything ever?” Luke asks.

“Kind of have to learn how to cram your entire life in a suitcase when you get shipped off to your father’s every summer,” Andreas says with a shrug. This is probably the first time he’s ever brought up his dad. He’s talked about him before, when it’s come up, but it’s always things like ‘we aren’t close’ or ‘we don’t really talk’. Maybe it’s stupid of Luke, but him even mentioning his dad feels big.

“Come here,” Luke says.

“I’m fine,” Andreas says immediately.

“Come here you packing wizard,” Luke says. “For your reward or whatever.”

Andreas grins then, all teeth, and walks right into Luke’s outstretched arms.


	16. Seb/Simon; platonic

****Simon’s sure that, were he to say he’d never really considered Seb in a romantic light at all, everyone he knows would accuse him of lying. And he…it wouldn’t be the full truth, he supposes, since it’s impossible not to think about it at all when, for example, your mother’s reaction upon you coming out is ‘are you and Seb dating?’. To which Simon had responded ‘he’s straight’, and frowned when she went ‘okay, dear’, sounding sceptical.

Seb getting caught sneaking a boy out of his room at his billet three months later was…irritating, in hindsight, especially because Simon hadn’t been lying — he thought Seb was straight. But even then, no matter what anyone thinks, he didn’t have some belated realisation or anything. Mostly he was angry. Angry that Seb didn’t tell him, and angry in a smaller, more ugly way, a way he pretended wasn’t there, that the one thing that was just his…of course Seb had to be extraordinary in that way as well.

Simon knows what people assume. Two men who are attracted to men can’t possibly have a platonic relationship. It’s insulting. It’s as insulting as the idea that men and women can’t be friends, that friendship is somehow less meaningful than romance, that you can’t care about someone without it somehow revolving around your respective genitalia. It’s asinine, and they’re better than that. There is no one in the entire world Simon cares more about, he’s almost positive that feeling is mutual, and romantic feelings have nothing whatsoever to do with that.

But then, of course, the Olympics happen, and Simon’s stupid, contrary little heart fucks it all up.


	17. Jake/David, Joe; bury the hatchet

Jake leans on David’s shoulder, trying to see the start of the breakaway competition over the tousled blond of his hair, but misses the start of whatever ridiculous thing Boucher’s doing this time when he gets distracted by the blushing pink shell of David’s ear.

“Ten bucks Boucher gets crowd favorite even though someone else’s was better,” Jake says, leaning forward more to speak directly into David’s ear. He’s not micced up, but some of the other guys are, and he doesn’t want to get caught trashtalking.

David elbows him lightly in an unspoken ‘get off and stop distracting me’, and Jake leans on him more.

“Twenty?” Jake says, and before David can open his mouth, “ ‘You know I don’t make bets, Jake’.”

David elbows him again, a little harder, and tries to hide a smile, but Jake catches it.

*

Boucher wins crowd favorite, so it’s probably just as well that David doesn’t take bets.

*

Gally has this uncanny ability to know exactly when he’ll annoy you most. Joe has just started dozing off beside the pool when his phone buzzes beside his ear and startles him awake.

“Have Lourdes and Chapman Buried the Hatchet?” Joe reads aloud from the article Gally linked him. “Jesus fucking christ.”

Jenn slides her sunglasses down. “Is that a euphemism? Playing ‘bury the hatchet’?”

“Don’t make me think about their sex life,” Joe mutters. “Why do I read the shit Gally sends me? Why haven’t I learned by now?”

Jenn pats his shoulder comfortingly. “Because you secretly live for gossip,” she says, less comfortingly.

“Wrong,” Joe says. “Not true. Lies.”

“Okay honey,” Jenn says, insultingly dubious, and goes back to her book.


	18. Thomas/Anton; dirty tactics

“I can’t reach my phone,” Anton says.

Thomas, sleepy and comfortable, doesn’t see how that applies to him.

“Vin,” Anton says.

“You don’t need your phone,” Thomas decides, and settles himself more firmly on top of Anton.

“You’re crushing me,” Anton says.

“Either I’m too skinny or I’m crushing you,” Thomas says. “You can’t have it both ways.”

Anton frowns. Thomas can’t actually see his face, but he knows he is. He smiles into the collar of Anton’s shirt, and just as Anton seems to ready himself to complain, Thomas presses that smile against the warm column of Anton’s throat, feeling Anton’s pulse flutter under his lips.

Anton relaxes. “This isn’t fair,” Anton says.

“What isn’t fair?” Thomas asks.

“You can’t just—” Anton says.

Thomas rubs his nose against the hollow of Anton’s throat, and can’t help laughing when Anton’s hands reflexively tighten on his sides, Anton letting out a yelp. “Cold!” Anton complains. “How are you always so cold?”

“Warm me up?” Thomas asks, looking up to give Anton a winning smile.

Anton shoves his face lightly, but then lets go of him to pull the blankets up around his shoulders, lets Thomas tuck his face back into his neck.

“I really do need my phone,” Anton says, when Thomas has gotten comfortable again.

“I need cuddles,” Thomas counters.

“I told my mother I’d call her today,” Anton says.

Thomas considers, then levers himself up just enough to grab Anton’s phone from the bedside table, relaxed by the slow cadence of Anton’s voice, Russian with spurts of English interspersed, lulled by the low murmur Anton speaks in, like he’s trying not to disturb him.


	19. Sven/Yvette/Gerard; skype

The NHL schedule is hard for relationships, Gerard’s always known this well, but there’s an entirely new set of issues with long distance when Yvette may be a thousand miles away, but Sven’s close enough to touch. Or, most recently, under his fingers, laptop angled to get the best view while Yvette watches, dark-eyed and quiet, except when she’s giving directions.

“Suck him off,” Yvette says, voice dark and low, and Gerard can’t even think of doing anything else.

Gerard can’t count the amount of times between the both of them they’ve asked Yvette if she was okay with this, watching them together without being able to participate — far too many, according to her, when she snapped at them the last time they dared to. She seems fine with it, when the long distance is inevitable — happy, even — but Gerard can’t imagine it’s satisfying.

At home during the offseason, that familiar Skype wall between them — albeit between Gerard and Sven and Yvette, rather than Yvette and Sven and Gerard — Gerard’s reconsidering his opinion. “Put your mouth on her,” Gerard says, barely recognizing his own voice, and Sven pulls back from the curve of her neck just long enough to say “Anywhere in particular?” because he’s an asshole.

Gerard could swear he just saw the flicker of Yvette rolling her eyes, even as far as she is from the grainy camera. Perhaps it’s just because he knows she would be. “Just eat me out like the man asked,” she says.

“Sometimes I think you two are conspiring—” Sven starts, the rest of his complaint muffled when Yvette impatiently guides him by the hair to where he needs to be, and Gerard swallows hard and slides a hand under his sweats.


	20. Mike/Liam; dinosaur

If Liam thinks whatever the fuck he’s doing is stealthy, Mike feels genuinely sad for him. He considers going with it, because he’s just gotten comfortable, and it seems like too much effort, but he doesn’t feel like humoring him, and fuck knows what Liam’s planning. Maybe Mike lets him go and he jumps on him or some shit.

“The fuck, Fitzgerald?” Mike says into the throw pillow Liam’s parents brought last time they visited. It’s godawful looking, all dainty fucking flower bullshit, but unlike most throw pillows, it actually performs its duty as a decent pillow instead of a useless accessory, so Mike’s okay with it sticking around.

The shuffling stops, and Liam stands still so long Mike has a feeling jumping might be imminent anyway.

“I know you’re still there,” Mike says. “I’m not a fucking dinosaur.”

“That’s debatable,” Liam says. Mike knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. He comes over, normally now, and Mike rolls onto his side so Liam can squeeze himself onto the couch, wraps a restraining hand around his waist so he doesn’t topple off. The couch is wide, but it’s not that wide.

“What’s up?” he asks, mouth brushing the soft hairs on the back of Liam’s neck. “Any reason you’ve regressed to five years old?”

“Regressed?” Liam asks, and Mike huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know. Team bullshit. I’m tired.”

He sounds it too. The North Stars have been struggling, and it’s been carving a piece out of him in a way it never did on the Oilers.

“Want to take a nap with me?” Mike asks.

“That sounds good,” Liam says, and Mike brushes a kiss against his neck, secures him better, and lets himself drift off with the assurance that he can’t get stealth bombed if Liam is a breath away.


	21. Jaya, Riley Lapointes; deceit

Jaya stares down at the tray.

“Baking is supposed to be science,” she says. “I’m good at science.”

“You burned science,” Charlie says, then gingerly reaches for one of the cookies. When she bites into it there’s an audible cracking noise. Jaya doesn’t think that’s a good sign.

Charlie walking over to the garbage and spitting the cookie out is definitely not a good sign, especially because Jaya can count on one hand times she’s seen Charlie refuse to eat something. She’s got an iron stomach. She drank a glass of hot sauce once, just to prove she could, then decided she was hungry and ate a bunch of wings with more hot sauce. Jaya isn’t touching those cookies.

“This was a stupid idea anyway,” Charlie says. “Like, can’t we just buy him cookies?”

“No,” Jaya says. “Happy birthday, have some random cookies? Come on, Charlotte.”

Charlie makes a face at her. “You didn’t make me cookies for my birthday,” she complains.

“Do you want these?” Jaya asks. “Late birthday present.”

“Pass,” Charlie says. “Definite pass.”

“I thought so,” Jaya says, then looks back at the tray with dismay.

“On the other hand, you made some damn good homemade pucks,” Charlie says, and laughs when Jaya chucks one at her. “Look,” she says. “We go buy some cookies from a bakery, none of the fancy ones or anything, just the normal ones, we’re not _trying_ to get caught, and you make him a nice card, and we call it a day.

“That’s deceitful,” Jaya says. “No way.”

*

“You made these?” Leon asks. “They’re really good, thank you.”

Jaya smiles guiltily, and frowns at Charlie when she just looks smug.

“I didn’t make the cookies,” Jaya tells him when Charlie’s gone off to grab her present for him. “I tried to make you cookies, but I totally–”

“I know,” Leon says. “These are from D Liche.”

Jaya grimaces.

“Thank you for trying though,” Leon says. “That’s the most important thing.”

“How are you Charlie’s brother?” Jaya says, and gives him a hug. “Happy birthday, buddy.”

“I was adopted,” Leon helpfully reminds her, hugging her back. “And thank you.”


	22. Dan, Charlie; solidarity

Dan thinks it’s straight up unfair that Marc at fifty probably still skates better than Dan did at twenty. He thinks it’s even more unfair that he hasn’t been able to skate the way he’s doing right now, the clean hard rush, that when he retired he basically resigned himself to family skates and workshopping Charlie’s team, that no one’s gotten to see this.

Basically, the Habs-Sens alumni game? Marc’s got that shit in the bag. If Dan didn’t know better, he’d think Marc had never quit hockey.

“Shoot it!” Charlie screams. This would be a nice sign of enthusiasm if the Sens didn’t currently have the puck.

Dan gives her a look, which she does a good job pretending to ignore, one that would fool almost anyone else.

“Charlotte,” Dan says.

“Daniel,” Charlie retorts.

“Stop that,” Dan says.

“It’s solidarity, dad,” Charlie says. “Solidarity with you.”

“With me,” Dan says.

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “It’s your guys. And like, Sven and Gerard are down there, so. I don’t see why you’re not cheering for them. Like, way to be a traitor.”

“Honey, I think Sven would be insulted if a team I haven’t played for since before you were born mattered more than my husband,” Dan says.

Charlie colours a little, and doesn’t argue, even though it’s basically her favourite hobby right now. Dan can practically hear Sven saying that, and he bets Charlie can too. He has that effect, the kind of thing where you can hear him in your head, not mad, just _disappointed_. It’s been almost twenty years since Sven was his captain, and he still hears that voice sometimes.

“Whatever, still rooting for them,” Charlie mutters, embarrassed, “Underdogs or whatever,” but when Marc scores, this beautiful snipe that would hit highlight reel in an NHL game, let alone here, she’s jumping up to cheer right with him.  


	23. David/Jake; reconsideration

David practices in the mirror, murmured into the darkness above his bed, with the hope it’ll get easier, but every time he can feel himself go hot, an uncomfortable mix of mortification and — he feels himself go hot, this uncomfortable flush that seems to come up when he thinks about it. It’s not exactly a pleasant feeling, but it’s not —

He’s been thinking about it a lot, and he knows there isn’t anything wrong with that exactly, that Jake would say that, that thinking there’s something wrong with that is insulting Jake, who has no problem taking it, who seems to enjoy it —

David scrubs his hands over his face and tries to think of something else, succeeds, a lot of the time, but inevitably it creeps back. Robbie jokes about the Rangers giving it to them without even a friendly reacharound, and David turns his face away, hoping no ones sees him go red, distracted by Matthews loudly calling Robbie a perv and throwing his elbow pad at him.

Thinks about it during more…solitary pursuits, which starts off innocently enough, flicking through a catalogue of memories and landing on Jake’s mouth wrapped around him, hair silken where it’s twisted between David’s fingers, eyes flicking up to meet David’s as he takes him deeper. He’d had a hand on the junction of where David’s hip meets his thigh, touch almost ticklish, David was so sensitive, and David couldn’t help thinking at the time how easy it would be for him to just…shift his hand. There was lube in the bedside table, he could get his fingers wet, slick, press —

David lets himself catch his breath before he goes to the bathroom to get a cloth, looks in the mirror. Practices it again while he’s there, and he thinks he’ll be able to get it out the next time he sees Jake. He’s unsure if the twist in his stomach is ever going to go away, thinking about it, but he — he wants it.


	24. Robbie/Georgie; best four of seven

“This is fucking bullshit!” Robbie says. “You cheated!”

“At…rock paper scissors,” Georgie says. “I cheated at rock paper scissors.”

Robbie scowls. He hates being called on it when he’s being ridiculous. “You’re psychic or whatever,” he mutters.

“Just about you, babe,” Georgie says, and Robbie kicks him in the knee, lightly enough it’s more of a love tap than anything.

“Best three of five?” Robbie tries.

“I just won best three of five,” Georgie points out. “In four.”

“Best four of seven,” Robbie amends.

“And then best five of nine?” Georgie predicts.

“I could have a comeback,” Robbie argues.

“Best four of seven,” Georgie allows, because they’re not in any hurry, and anyway, they’re at three to one, and he’s pretty sure Robbie isn’t going to win three straight.

He wins once, crowing loudly, before Georgie beats him with scissors again. Robbie’s all rock or paper, all the time. This says so much about him. It’s not hard to win when you know never to bother with rock.

Robbie’s quiet for a moment, and Georgie isn’t fooled even a little.

“First to five,” Robbie decides.

“Babe,” Georgie says. “This was playoffs, and you just lost in five.”

Robbie winces, because that’s exactly what Boston did last week. Not that it doesn’t hurt Georgie, he grew up a Bruins fan same as Robbie, but there’s a bit more distance when you’ve already started to view them as future opponents.

“Fine,” Robbie sighs explosively. “We spend the weekend at your parents’. But I’m getting you next time.”

“Okay, babe,” Georgie says, and dodges before Robbie can kick him again, catches him offguard with a kiss and keeps ahold of him until Robbie’s smiling against his mouth, disarmed.


	25. Stephen, David, Jake, Gabe; reconsideration (partie deux et folie a deux)

Stephen has nothing against Jake Lourdes.

“Steve, you can’t argue that at the same time you’re trying to get out of a double date,” Gabe says. “Just for the record.”

“Don’t—”

“Steve,” Gabe says again, then, even more annoyingly, repeats what their peewee coach used to call him, “Steve Peters.”

“You can’t annoy me into doing something I don’t want to do,” Stephen says.

“Can’t I?” Gabe asks.

*

Stephen has nothing against Jake Lourdes, he just doesn’t like him. Which may sound like the same thing, but it isn’t. Lourdes hasn’t done anything, hasn’t said anything. There’s nothing to hold against him. But he’s irritating. He’s irritating, and Gabe laughs at his jokes even when they aren’t funny, even though Gabe never laughs at jokes that aren’t funny, and Stephen emphatically does not want to know but he’s still pretty sure they’ve swapped handjobs at the very least. That’d be a stupid reason to dislike him, considering he and Gabe weren’t together then, wouldn’t get together for years, and he obviously has no right getting upset about anything Gabe did before him, the same way Gabe has no right to get upset about anything Stephen did.

Still, he looks at Lourdes and every time he does it’s an ugly flash of _how many times was it? How far did it go? Did he like it more with you?_

Chapman seems more Gabe’s type than Lourdes’. Which Stephen supposes means Chapman seems more like Stephen himself than Gabe, Gabe who’s open, warm, friendly. Chapman’s closed off in a way Stephen can recognise, knows he can be like in his worst moments, though it seems like Chapman’s like that every moment. He’s quiet, and shy, and Stephen likes him exponentially more than he likes Lourdes, wonders what he’s even _doing_ with him.

*

It’s on the ‘double date’ — Stephen dislikes the very idea of it — that he reconsiders. It’s less a date than the four of them hanging out at the place Gabe’s subletting so that they’re not bouncing between their parents’ all summer, because Stephen loves his parents, and he loves the Marksons, but the idea of squeezing two people onto twin mattresses that were starting to get too small for one even before they finished puberty, or spending their nights alone, well. Sublet it is.

Chapman’s quiet, as usual, though a little less quiet than he has been before, and if Stephen wasn’t paying attention he wouldn’t notice that those bursts of conversation are always coaxed — not forced, but something he recognizes from Gabe knowing when to pull him out of his own head, gently prodding until he brings himself back from a place he doesn’t want to be. Encouragement, not force. Lourdes does it without even seeming to realise it, involves Chapman whenever he starts to distance himself.

“—Steve?” Gabe asks.

“Don’t—”

“Chances for the Jays,” Gabe says, reiterating a question Stephen must have missed. Stephen lays it out as briefly as he can manage, Chapman  leaning in to listen, and he almost misses the grin Gabe shoots Lourdes, thinks it would feel annoying some other day, but right now it’s fine.  


	26. David/Jake; hot damn

“I’m dying,” Jake decides.

“You’re not dying,” David says, then, sounding very concerned, “Are you dizzy? Is your heart beating too—”

“I’m being a baby,” Jake interrupts him before he can get himself even more worked up. “Just assume when I say I’m dying I mean this sucks.”

“Those are not even close to the same thing,” David chides. “Don’t joke about dying.”

Jake smiles at him, even though everything hurts and is terrible. “This sucks,” he says. “I’m not dying, but this sucks.”

David lays a cold hand across his cheek. His hands aren’t usually cold, so Jake assumes this means they’re just cold in comparison to him. “I’m sorry,” David says quietly. “Can I get you anything?”

More than anything Jake wants David to crawl into bed with him, but there’s no way he isn’t contagious, and David might have it already, but he might not, so it’s selfish to ask for that.

“Maybe some water or something?” Jake asks.

David returns with his arms full, two bottles of Gatorade in his hands, both Jake’s favorite flavor, and two bottles of water tucked under his arm.

“I have one cold and one room temperature,” David says. “You didn’t say if your stomach was bothering you but I know when it is it’s best to have—”

“I love you,” Jake says.

David smiles a little, uncomfortable and shy. “Can you reach if I put them on the bedside table?” he asks.

“I’m not actually dying, I promise,” Jake says.

David puts them down, then pushes Jake’s hair back from where it’s sticking, damp, from his forehead, cool hand back against his skin. “You’re really hot,” he says.

“Thanks, you too,” Jake says, and David laughs softly.

“Could you keep some pills down?” David says. “You’re too hot.”

Jake opens his mouth.

“Don’t say hot damn,” David says.

“Hot damn,” Jake says unapologetically, and David not only lets him get away with it, but presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead.


	27. David/Jake, Mike/Liam; knowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canon character death.

David doesn’t generally read Player’s Tribune. Jake does, and he’s pointed him to a few articles, once because it had a flattering reference to his play, another time because Robbie wrote it, a third because it had a few paragraphs about the 2018 Gold Medal game.

“You played with Mike Brouwer, huh?” Jake asks, and David frowns. He was as surprised as everyone when his death was announced earlier this year, and more sad than he thought he’d be, considering he hadn’t really talked to him since he was an Islander. Still, he died too young, and David couldn’t help remembering Brouwer teaching him how to take a hit right, couldn’t help thinking that there was no right way to take a hit in the end, not long-term.

“Yeah,” David confirms.

“I think you’re going to want to read this,” Jake says. He looks kind of red around the eyes. He didn’t even know Brouwer, David doesn’t think, but Jake cries easily — he cried watching some Disney movie with their nephews last year, and they still haven’t stopped teasing him about it.

“Is it a profile or something?” David asks.

“I think you’re going to want to read this,” Jake just says again.

*

“I didn’t know,” David says.

“Sounds like most people didn’t,” Jake says. “I just thought, you know. You’d like to.”

David didn’t play against Fitzgerald much, considering they were in different conferences, but he remembers him, mostly because he was irritating to play against, smaller than David by at least a few inches but almost impossible to force off the puck, hanging out in the crease doing everything he could to score a goal without getting goaltender interference, chirping constantly in a way David had more or less learned to tune out. If he could have picked someone that Brouwer would have fallen in love with, well. He wouldn’t have guessed a man in the first place, but he certainly wouldn’t have thought of someone like Fitzgerald.

He remembers, suddenly, Brouwer cutting in during one of the moments Benson and his crew of bottom six bullies (as Kiro later dubbed them) started in on him. David doesn’t even remember what it was about anymore. Something about Jake. Something homophobic. Something that cut too close, that Benson realised cut too close. He’d called them out and mortified Benson without batting an eye, and didn’t seem to think anything of it. 

David hadn’t known about Brouwer, but he thinks Brouwer might have known about him.

David feels a thread of grief, sudden and sharper than he might have expected. “Thanks,” he says. “I — I did want to.”

“Want a hug?” Jake asks.

“I barely knew him,” David says, “We weren’t friends or anything, we were just teammates, not—”

“Want a hug?” Jake asks.

“Yes please,” David says, and tucks his face in the hollow of Jake’s throat when Jake wraps his arms around him.


	28. Mike/Liam; Mall of America

Liam hovers while Mike works on fruit salad. “Want to help?” Mike asks. Even Liam can’t fuck up chopping up fruit.

“Nope,” Liam says, then hops up onto the counter in the spot that’s unofficially been designated as his favorite place to get in Mike’s way while he’s cooking. Mike’s learned not to do any prep too close to there, because his ingredients get filched if they’re in reaching distance.

“My parents are coming next week,” Liam says.

“I don’t have dementia _yet_ ,” Mike says. He’s not looking forward to it. He’s got nothing against the Fitzgeralds, they’re nice people, and Liam got them a hotel room, so Mike doesn’t have to worry about people he barely knows in his space, but he’s sure they’re going to expect to be entertained when Liam’s at practices, pregame shit. The games they’ll go to, so it’s fine then, but Mike isn’t good at entertaining, and he sure as shit isn’t a good tour guide.

“Mike,” Liam chides, because he doesn’t like Mike joking about anything to do with his symptoms, current or inevitably future, which is too fucking bad because if Mike doesn’t joke about it he’ll just be angry about it, and honestly, being angry just makes him tired.

“Think you could take them to Mall of America?” Liam asks.

This must be retaliation for Mike’s joke.

“I would rather stab myself with this,” Mike says, completely honestly.

“I think we should take them to Mall of America,” Liam says decisively, the fucking brat. “We could go on the roller coaster!”

“I would rather stab _you_ with this,” Mike says, less honestly.

Mike has to wonder at the shit luck that keeps ending him up in cities with malls the size of fucking theme parks. Hell, malls that _include_ fucking theme parks.

“Did you know it’s owned by the same guys who own the West Edmonton Mall?” Liam asks, like a mindreader.

That’s it. Whoever those guys are have a personal grudge against Mike. Or just anyone with a shred of decency.

“Fun fact: dudes are Canadian. A mall that’s literally named _The Mall of America_  is Canadian owned,” Liam says. “Roman didn’t believe me, said it was unpatriotic or whatever. We made a bet, so now he’s got to come to practice in a Team Canada jersey. I think he’s borrowing Connie’s Juniors one, so that’ll be…completely ridiculous.”

“Are you trying to make me like Canadians less or something?” Mike asks.

“You like Canadians just fine,” Liam says with a smirk.

Mike throws a piece of apple at him. It bounces off his chest and into his lap, and he doesn’t even blink before he picks it up and eats it.

“Gimme another one,” Liam says, then holds his mouth open.

Mike rolls his eyes but lobs a piece of apple at his mouth, and Liam crunches contentedly.

“I’m not going to the mall,” Mike says. “I hate malls, and that’s not even a mall, that’s a fucking monstrosity.”

“I know,” Liam says. “Come on, you think I don’t know you?”

“So you’re just being annoying for the sake of being annoying?” Mike asks.

“Yep,” Liam chirps. “And blowing your mind with Canadian conspiracies to take over your country one giant mall at a time.”

“Thanks for that,” Mike says dryly. “I really appreciate it.”

“You’re so welcome, grumpy face,” Liam says, and the next piece of apple Mike aims right between his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Note: All of Liam’s statements are accurate, but not only is the Mall of America owned by Canadians, it’s owned by a Jewish Iranian-Canadian family, along with the future American Dreams Meadowlands. I think that fact would infuriate bigots, which makes me happy, so I thought I would share.)


	29. Roman/Evan; red and white

Roman stares down at the jersey Connie hands him nervously. Roman figured it’d be a tough fit, because Sweetheart’s the kind of stringbean skinny a lot of the rookies can be before they settle into their height, but the taller guys usually go up sizes, and you don’t get much taller than Connie.

“What, did you grow six inches in the last year?” Roman asks.

“It’s my U18 one,” Connie says. “I brought that one because we won gold that year,” he adds a little shyly. “I’m supposed to get it framed but I keep forgetting to do it.”

Roman cannot wear this jersey. Connie _loves_ this jersey, Roman can tell from the hesitation. This jersey belongs in that kind of shrine you make of the most important things; your first goal, some major milestones. Medals, trophies, Cup rings if you’re lucky enough to get one. This jersey does not belong on Roman’s back.

“Hold onto it for me for a second?” Roman asks, and it looks like it’s all Connie can do not to hold it protectively to his chest when he takes it back.

“Fitzy, I can’t wear that jersey,” Roman says.

“A bet is a bet,” Fitzy says stubbornly.

“If I rip the kid’s jersey he’s going to cry,” Roman says. “Look at him.”

Evan’s chewing his lip nervously, managing a weak smile when Spoilsport starts saying something to him, adding a clap to his back. Roman can’t hear what’s being said, but it’s probably rude. Even so, Sweetheart’s usually a little better at the smiling thing.

Fitzy considers. “Can you manage it without equipment?”

“I can’t practice without equipment, are you nuts?” Roman asks.

“That’s not what I meant,” Liam says. “It’d fit without shit under it?”

“Yeah,” Roman says suspiciously. “Why?”

*

“Of all the fucking—” Roman sighs, when Fitzy finally cashes in on the bet. He has some admirable self-restraint, considering he dropped it for literal months, long enough that Roman thought he’d just forgotten about it. He didn’t know Fitzy as well then. He’s learned.

“Give us a twirl,” Fitzy says when he puts it on. Roman gives him the finger instead.

“You look so cute,” Liam gushes. “C’mon.”

“For the record I am going to get you back for this,” Roman threatens.

“Sure sure,” Fitzy says, then follows him into Devon’s place for the Canada-USA Semi-Final, where Roman immediately gets cat-calls from the Canadians and betrayed looks from his fellow Americans.

“Canada looks good on you,” Evan says, and from anyone else it’d be chirping, but he sounds sincere. Shy again, cheeks heating, and Roman continues to have the sinking feeling that he’s got a problem on his hands.

“Thanks, Sweetheart,” Roman says, and pretends not to notice Evan going even redder.


	30. Andy/Derek; romantic

Andy has a fraught relationship with Valentine’s Day. Through high school and his rookie year, it was a reminder not only that he was single, but even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be able to celebrate it like everyone around him did, public and unashamed. After he got together with Derek, well — public wasn’t on the table, but unashamed is probably Derek’s middle name.

“It’s Jorge,” Derek corrects.

Derek Jorge Unashamed Carruthers.

“I like it,” Derek decides. He would.

Valentine’s Day isn’t the lonely, upsetting day it used to be, but considering Derek inevitably manages to injure one of them, set off Andy’s allergies, or both, Andy’s still a little scared of the day.

“Here’s what I want for Valentine’s Day,” Andy says two weeks before. He hopes that’s enough time that Derek hasn’t already started doing something crazy.

Derek raises an eyebrow, which doesn’t hide how he’s leaning in to listen.

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Andy says, and when Derek opens his mouth to object, “I want to do something.”

“I should do something too, though,” Derek protests.

“Not if you want a surprise,” Andy says.

“There’s a surprise?” Derek asks, lighting up.

“Only if you’re good,” Andy says.

“I’ll be good,” Derek says quickly.

*

Valentine’s Day is supposed to be romantic, which is what Derek leans on every year, and probably the reason it goes sideways as much as it does. Romantic is a lot of pressure.

Andy’s certainly not interested in flower petals (allergic) or scented candles (give him a headache). He gets where Derek’s coming from, wanting to make things romantic, but considering romantic sex was totally possible in Derek’s parents’ guest room when they were both hungover, he’s pretty sure it’s the people that make the difference.

That said, he’s currently doing the very, very unromantic work of stretching himself in the bathroom to slide in a cold, unyielding plug he staked out the mailbox for days over, paranoid Derek would get curious and open it if he got to it first. There’s something about the idea of Derek just being able to slick himself and slide into him, no figuring out preparation, or trying to remember where to find the lube (Andy has a packet in his pocket), just immediately having him — it feels more romantic than flower petals, and would even if Andy wasn’t allergic, he thinks.

Derek’s not supposed to be home until later — Dan’s distracting him — but Dan clearly failed at his job, because Derek comes home when Andy’s half-undressed, still trying to adjust to the feeling of the plug, a kind of fullness it’s hard not to notice every time he shifts.

“Babe?” Derek calls. “I got take-out from Johnny Farina’s.”

“I told you not to do anything,” Andy says, once he’s gathered himself and also his clothes. He’s ruining Andy’s timeline, here. There’s no way Andy can sit through dinner with a plug in his ass. No way.

“We get take-out all the time,” Derek protests.

“Go sit down,” Andy says. “I’ll get plates.”

Derek goes to sit down at the table, and Andy puts the food down. It smells great, but Andy has a plan here.

“Where’s—” Derek starts, but shuts up when Andy straddles his lap, careful not to put all his weight down. With their luck, the chair would break.

“Hi,” Andy says.

“Hi,” Derek says, with a goofy grin Andy kisses off his face.

It’s mostly leisurely, the kind of making out they do on the couch when they’re bored, at least until Andy gets impatient and grabs Derek’s hand, shoving it down the back of his pants.

“Wha—” Derek starts, but he lets Andy guide him. Andy hides his face in Derek’s hair, embarrassed, but he’s committed now.

“Aw fuck, Andy,” Derek manages, when his fingers make contact with the base of the plug.

“It’s not like rose petals or—” Andy starts, and Derek shuts him up with a kiss.

“Can I fuck you?” Derek asks.

“That’s kind of the point,” Andy says, then realising sarcastic isn’t romantic or sexy, “You can slide right in.”

Derek pushes his forehead against Andy’s shoulder, breath hot and fast against Andy’s skin.

“We should probably go to the bedroom,” he says, kind of husky.

“Why?” Andy asks. “Just do it here.” The curtains are closed, and the door’s locked, and Derek looks like Andy just smacked him with a brick. Andy considers Valentine’s officially a success when Derek bends him over the dining room table and does exactly what he asks. Less when he’s disinfecting the dining room table so they can eat a reheated dinner and rubbing idly at the bruise forming on his hip from the edge of the table, but honestly, as far as injuries go, this Valentine’s was pretty mild.


	31. Jake/David, Joe; wrong and bad

David isn’t directly involved here, but while Robbie’s been spiraling, David and Jake have been texting, and Jake and David have…diverging opinions on pizza toppings. Jake loves him anyway.

For someone so perfect, David has _terrible_ views about pizza.

“I’m not even going to comment on the perfect thing,” Joe says. “At all. For my safety.”

“Are you saying David’s not perfect?” Jake asks.

“Yes,” Joe says. “So much. Hey Volkie! Is Chapman perfect?”

Volkie throws back his head and laughs. “Most perfect,” he says, but in a voice that says he doesn’t really mean it. Jake won’t tell David his best friend’s a _traitor._

“I rest my case,” Joe says. “And I really don’t want to hear about—”

“Pineapple is delicious,” Jake says.

“Yes?” Joe says. “Okay?”

“And it is delicious on pizza.”

“Aw, don’t tell me I’m agreeing with Chapman on something,” Joe groans.

“What’s wrong with that?” Jake asks.

“Don’t even get me started,” Joe says. “Okay, so. Wait. Your latest drama is that you disagree on pizza toppings?”

“It’s not drama,” Jake says.

“Pizza toppings,” Joe repeats flatly. “Hey Jake, olives.”

Jake wrinkles his nose.

“Man, I love me some olives,” Joe says. “Wanna fight about it?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Jake says.

“ _You’re_ being ridiculous,” Joe counters. “I can’t believe you’re coming to me because your boyfriend doesn’t like pineapple on his pizza.”

Jake shushes him.

“Did you just _shush_ me?” Joe asks.

“You just called out to Volkie about David, you can’t call him my boyfriend,” Jake says, carefully low. Parey’s probably the only person in hearing distance without raising their voices, and he’s tuning them out, but still. David wouldn’t like it.

“Ugh,” Joe says. “You need to talk to Volkie about this, I’m out.”

“Volkie won’t care,” Jake counters.

“You’re overestimating how much I care,” Joe says, standing. “By a lot.”

“He said pepperoni was overrated,” Jake says.

Joe sits back down. “That’s wrong and bad and he should feel bad,” he announces.

“ _Right?_ ” Jake asks.


	32. Seb/Simon; morning after

Simon can’t say how he knows he’s being stared at before he even opens his eyes, but he does. He can’t say it’s how he expected to wake up either, though perhaps he should have.

“You’re being creepy, Sebastien,” Simon says, and he can feel Seb jump, startled, before he’s got a pointy chin digging into his sternum, which he thinks means Seb’s decided to double-down on the creepy now that he’s been caught at it.

Simon opens his eyes, squinting down at — yes, where Seb is blinking up at him, a crease in his creek from the pillow and bags under his eyes from the exhaustion of playoffs that Simon knows from experience will take a while to fade.

“Good morning, Simobelle,” Seb says, and when Simon frowns at him, “Fine, Simobeau.”

“Worst thing about one night stands, they don’t even remember your name in the morning,” Simon says.

“Si,” Seb pouts. “Si you don’t mean that.”

“You’re getting closer,” Simon allows.

“Simon,” Seb whines.

“Good,” Simon says. “And you’re — it’s Francois, right?”

Seb grinds his chin into Simon’s chest.

Simon reaches a hand down, half considering tugging the brat off him, but his hair’s an unruly mess, cowlick he’s had for as long as Simon can remember sticking up, and Simon pets it down, even though he knows it’s a lost cause, that the only thing the can defeat it is stubborn hard work and hair products that probably cost more than the mattress they’re on.

Seb closes his eyes, turning his head so his cheek’s resting on Simon’s chest, which is undeniably more pleasant than his chin. He lets Simon fiddle with his hair until Simon can see the antsy energy take over, and he opens his eyes again. “Breakfast?” Simon guesses.

“Offseason,” Seb says, sounding happy about it for the first time since the Lightning were knocked out. “I can eat bacon. I can eat so much bacon. Simon, make me bacon. Like, an entire package. All for me. You can’t have any.”

“Make your own damn bacon,” Simon mutters, and Seb’s already hopping out of bed to do so.


	33. David/Jake; retirement

David sounds appalled when Jake tells him he’s considering retiring. “You’re not even forty,” he says. “You’re their captain.”

“I have a bum shoulder,” Jake says. “I don’t bring the same toughness I used to, I should be bottom six but I’m not, and they’re not exactly going to suffer, because no way they don’t give Graham the captaincy, and he deserves it. They’d be fine without me.”

“Jake,” David says, in this voice like he wants to argue out of stubbornness, but he actually agrees with everything Jake’s said.

“I don’t want them to toss me a cheap contract to help me save face when they don’t want me,” Jake says.

“You could try the market,” David says.

“I’d really rather retire in a Panthers jersey,” Jake says. “You know?”

“Yeah,” David says. “I—” he stops himself from whatever he’s about to say, looking flustered even though the blurry screen.

“What’s up, babe?” Jake asks.

“I’m not ready to retire yet,” David says.

“No shit, you play better than most twenty-five year olds,” Jake says. He isn’t as good as he was at his height, but very, very few people are, and he had a thirty goal season, which no one in their right mind can scoff at. Which doesn’t mean that people haven’t scoffed, just that they’re clearly not in their right mind. Jake had seven goals. Seven. He’d rather go out with dignity than hold on until the Panthers’ loyalty is overtaken by the fact that he’s deadweight on their roster. After everything they’ve done for him, he doesn’t want to ask for more.

“I’m just saying,” David says, still flustered.

“Wait,” Jake says slowly. “Do you think I want you to retire?”

“No, I just—”

“David,” Jake says.

“It just feels unfair,” David mumbles. “If I keep playing.”

“Why?” Jake asks. “You’re like the first person to say you have to earn your spot.”

“You’ve earned your spot,” David protests.

“But I stopped deserving it,” Jake says, and when David opens his mouth, “Don’t, come on, you know it’s true.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” David says.

“I’m being exactly as hard on myself as I need to be,” Jake says. “Panthers matter more than me, you know?”

“Yeah,” David says softly.

“But, you know, if you’ve got a spare bedroom,” Jake says. “And you don’t mind me hanging around while you’re still kicking all the young guys’ asses.”

David smiles. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty positive,” Jake says. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was.”

“Why not?” David asks.

“Because you’d talk me out of it,” Jake says.

“I wasn’t trying to—” David starts.

“I know,” Jake says. “Just. No one loves the game more than you do. You’d talk me out of it without even trying.”

“Are you sure?” David repeats.

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Haven’t talked to management yet, but I should soon, if I want to retire with my skates on instead of one some rolled out carpet.”

“You’ll have to get on one of those when they retire your number,” David says.

“David,” Jake says.

“You were their captain for almost twenty years, Jake,” David says. “They’re retiring your number.”

Jake shrugs.

“I’ll change the linen in the guest room,” David says. “You know. Getting ready for you.”

Jake smiles. “You do that,” he says.


	34. David/Jake, Joe, Kiro; save him from himself

Joe’s just innocently getting changed. That’s his mistake. Assuming, even subconsciously, that with a win in their pocket and a game tomorrow, everyone was going to have a nice, quiet night, and there wasn’t going to be any trouble. Stupid Joe.

“Do not let Jake have his phone until we are not in public,” Volkie hisses in his ear, and Joe practically leaps backwards.

“The hell did you come from?” Joe asks. He has no idea how he moved so quietly, especially because he’s still mostly in his gear.

Volkie waves a hand impatiently.

“What’s on his phone?” Joe asks. “Shit, did the media find out—”

“David was boarded,” Volkie interrupts.

“He okay?” Joe asks.

“He says so,” Volkie says. “I did not believe him so I asked Kurmazov and Lombardi too. Apparently okay. Shaken up and bruised, but okay. You tell Jake if he asks.”

“Like Jake’s going to be okay hearing that from anyone but David,” Joe says.

“He can wait until he gets his phone back,” Volkie says.

“Wait, back?” Joe asks.

Volkie glances over at where Jake’s talking to the media, then apparently satisfied he’s distracted, hands Joe Jake’s phone.

“Volkie!” Joe says, and Volkie smirks and then goes back to his stall.

Joe’s fully intending to put Jake’s phone right back, but he watches the hit on his own, you know, just for some context and it’s — it looks really, really bad. Worse than it actually was, apparently, but no way Jake’s not going to freak the fuck out when he sees it. Joe slips Jake’s phone into a safe place and continues getting changed.

Jake, unsurprisingly, isn’t going anywhere without it, tossing the room over once the reporters are gone and accusing both Gally and Volkie. “Follow me if you want your phone,” Joe says, walking out of the room without looking back, and Jake catches up to him in about three strides.

“You, Forster?” Jake asks. “They got to _you_?”

Joe considers ratting out Volkie, but eh, not worth it. “First of all, Chapman’s apparently fine,” Joe says. “According to both him and Kurmazov and Lombardi.”

It’s weird, seeing in someone’s face the moment they go cold all over.

“Give me my phone,” Jake says.

“He’s fine,” Joe says.

“Give it to me now, Joe,” Jake says.

“Let’s go somewhere a little more private first,” Joe says, and he thinks he might be overreacting, him and Volkie both, that Jake’s seen (and thrown) worse shit from a lot closer, and he’s handled it fine.

“That fucking piece of trash I’m going to knock his goddamn teeth out,” Jake shouts.

So yeah, privacy was a good idea. So was phone stealing. Good save, Volkie.

“I have to—” Jake says, and his hands are actually shaking.

Joe touches his wrist. “You want to calm down before you call your boyfriend, maybe?” he asks.

“No,” Jake says stubbornly.

“Okay,” Joe says. “I’m going to leave you to it. I’ll be outside, okay?”

Either Jake’s calmed down a bit or that room’s really well insulated, because Joe doesn’t hear shit out of it while he guards the door.

Parey gives him a suspicious look as he passes.

Joe nods back. “Jake,” he says, and Parey sighs and keeps walking.


	35. Vinny, Veronique, girl goalies; showstopper

For weeks, Thomas is paranoid he won’t play the game against the Panthers. It’s basically guaranteed — they have a game the night before against the Bruins, who are not only better than the Panthers by a lot, but are also, you know. The Bruins. You tend to play your best for rivalry games. Still, it’s possible — unlikely, but possible — that they’ll play Connors for both. Possible for Connors to get injured and Thomas to get the tap for the Bruins game, their call-up for the Panthers. Possible for Thomas to get injured.

Thomas really doesn’t want the girls to end up waving at him on the bench. He’s sure they’d be fine with it, considering the whole ‘suite at a Habs game’ thing, but he’d be pretty bummed.

Thomas does suit up on Sunday, and he does awesome, has a .964 save percentage, which is his best all season, but more importantly, has a win.

“My lucky charms!” Thomas says when the girls are escorted into the room after they make sure everyone’s decent and going to stay decent. Coach smiled indulgently when Thomas asked if it would be okay, said it’d be a good photo op. Thomas doesn’t really care about that, but if it means they get to come in, that’s fine. “You should come to all my games!”

“If you’re paying,” Gracie chirps, and Veronique puts a hand over her mouth to smother a laugh, but the Habs don’t bother, and Sandro literally gets up to fistbump her.

“Thanks for this,” Veronique murmurs, when the girls get distracted by Sandro, who’s always happy to mug for kids, and has probably beaten out Thomas, if not Veronique, as their favourite after he dropped in on the workshop last week. “You should have seen them, they were ecstatic. Applauded every save like it was a showstopper.”

“I am a showstopper,” Thomas says, and grins when she punches his shoulder. “Had to look decent so I don’t get embarrassed at your game next month.”

“What game?” Veronique asks.

“Sandro?” Thomas prompts.

“Oh yeah,” Sandro says. “So me and the Vinster were wondering if you monsters would like to accompany us to a Canadiennes game next month. On me.”

“Sandro!” Thomas says.

“On us,” Sandro allows.

The pitch in the locker room goes up to screaming, and Thomas sees Anton wince, along with a lot of other guys. Serge, with four kids, is the only one who looks completely unruffled by it, along with one cameraman who Thomas suspects must have kids himself.

Veronique punches him harder in the arm. “No pressure!” she says. “You stop 27 of 28 and now it’s my turn?”

“Get a shutout?” Thomas says, and then, “Ow,” when Veronique gives him one more punch on the arm for good measure.


	36. David/Jake, Kurmazovs; idiot

“This is Jake,” David says. “Say hi to Jake.”

Evgeni Kurmazov, who is way too little to wave, let alone say words, burbles something in baby language.

Jake’s going to die.

Jake’s going to die, but what a way to go.

“Hi Evgeni,” Jake manages, strangled, and shakes his tiny hand. In response, Evgeni latches onto to his index finger with the kind of strength only babies have, and holds on tight until David gently pries him loose, losing his own finger to Evgeni’s mouth in the process.

“Zhenya,” David says, laughing, as Evgeni gums at his finger. Jake doesn’t know what he’d expected, seeing David with Evgeni, but it wasn’t this, David’s laughter, David carefully opening Evgeni’s mouth to save his pinkie from becoming a teething ring.

Jake needs to sit down or something. He sits down beside Maria, who snickers. Jake looks over at her. “You look like—” she says, then murmurs something to Oleg in Russian.

“Like seeing future?” Oleg says, mouth tipping up a little, and Jake goes scarlet while Maria says something else to him in Russian. “I am apparently bad translator.”

“Yes,” she says. “You are. Would you like to hold him, Jake?”

“Of course,” Jake says. “Um. When David’s done, of course.”

“David’s never done,” she says dryly, and Jake looks over at David. He’s smiling wider at Evgeni, now gumming at an actual teething ring, than Jake thinks he’s ever seen him smile at anything.

“I can wait,” Jake says, feeling like he must be smiling as wide as David is.

Maria murmurs something, too low for Jake to catch, and in Russian regardless.

“Maria says you also look like idiot,” Oleg says. “Though I know she knows how to say that in English.”

“What is idiot,” Maria says, and Jake tears his eyes away from David to find her grinning.


	37. Luke, bb!Morris; adorable

Luke has literally never seen someone who looks more like Ben. He chirps Ben about it, that it’s unfortunate that Sadie doesn’t look more like her mom, but honestly, Ben was an adorable kid — and probably, Luke must admit, the best looking of the Morris clan — and when Luke says Sadie looks like Ben, mostly he means she’s adorable.

Luke’s not really a baby person. Like, in general, which team events make uncomfortably clear sometimes, but even when it’s his own family. Sadie’s the fifth of the Morris next generation, though the first to carry the Morris name, and Luke feels dimly guilty that she’s the first of that generation he falls head over heels with. It’s not that he doesn’t love his sisters’ kids, because he does, and has gotten more comfortable as they’ve gotten older, but Sadie got him at eight weeks old and hasn’t let go since.

It’s been a long damn season, and when Luke first saw Sadie, during their Western Canada trip, she didn’t do much of anything but lie there and look adorable. She seems like a whole person when Luke gets home, six months old and smiling and burbling and looking more like Ben than ever, clouds of strawberry blonde hair and toothless smile and chubby, sticky fingers.

Luke’s never wanted kids, and he doesn’t want kids now, but he considers himself lucky that he can get the baby fix. Ben’s happy to provide it for him, or his parents, or his sisters, hands her over with a mix of complete trust and happiness to have a break, which he’s admitted to Luke. She’s apparently colicky, but you can’t tell during the day, and Luke steals her from Ben for a walk, strapping on the ridiculous carrier they have after a lot of fumbling, then walking her around Bear Creek.

“We used to play on this,” Luke tells her. “Your dad kept trying to join the scrimmages, even though everyone was twice his size.”

Sadie’s eyes are drooping, lulled by the heat or the even tread of Luke’s pace. “Got the last laugh, though, didn’t he,” Luke says, rubbing the pad of his finger across the impossibly soft back of her hand and smiling, besotted, when her fingers curl into a gentle fist.


	38. Ryan/Nikolaj; different

It sounds asinine, so Nikolaj would never say it aloud, but Epstein isn’t like the other reporters.

Well, he says it to Bobby, but that’s because he inevitably tells Bobby everything. He just has the sort of face it’s impossible not to divulge information to, even if — as is currently the case — Nikolaj can’t actually see it.

“Ooh, _different_ , Niko,” Bobby says. Nikolaj can hear him shifting, wonders if he’s in bed too. Tries not to wonder. “Different how?”

“Well, he hasn’t described me as stoic yet,” Nikolaj says.

“Stop reading shit about yourself, how many times do I have to say this,” Bobby says. “It’s all bullshit.”

“I’m not stoic?” Nikolaj asks.

“You’re totally stoic,” Bobby says. “But in a hardened badass way, not whatever they mean it as.”

“Thanks,” Nikolaj says dryly.

“Well, points for not using stoic,” Bobby says.

“And no ‘aloof and apparently unconcerned about the Sabres’ plummet in the standings’,” Nikolaj says.

“Fuck Fox and _fuck_ Damien Wilson,” Bobby says. “I swear to god, Niko, that was three years ago and he was talking out of his ass like he always does. Guy wouldn’t know the blade from the shaft of a stick if I hit him in the fucking face with both of them.”

Nikolaj snorts.

“Is he cute?” Bobby says.

“Wilson?” Nikolaj asks. “I think I’m offended, Bobby.”

“Wilson looks like a shriveled ballsack,” Bobby says, with his usual way with words. “I mean Epstein.”

“That has nothing to do with anything,” Nikolaj says.

“So yes,” Bobby says.

“I didn’t say he was,” Nikolaj says.

“You didn’t say he wasn’t, which means yes,” Bobby says.

Nikolaj rolls his eyes. “He’s a reporter.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t look,” Bobby says. “Guess you got something in trade. You know, they ship me to Pittsburgh, they ship a cute beat guy—”

“Bobby,” Nikolaj interrupts.

They didn’t — when it was happening they talked about everything but…whatever it was. Bobby has no problem talking about it now, though, and Nikolaj doesn’t know if it’s the distance or the safety of not needing to look at Nikolaj as he says it. Or maybe it’s easier because he’s decided it’s something in the past, solidly behind them. Nikolaj doesn’t ask, however tempting it is. He doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Yes captain?” Bobby asks, which hurts in how true it no longer is.

“Don’t,” Nikolaj says. “Okay?”

He can practically hear Bobby debating on whether to go ‘don’t what?’, bring it further into a light Nikolaj doesn’t want it in.

“Okay,” he says, instead.

“Thank you,” Nikolaj says. “How’s being on a winning team?” he asks. He hopes it doesn’t come out bitterly, but he thinks he does.

“Rather still be on a team with you,” Bobby says.

“I need to go,” Nikolaj says.

“Niko,” Bobby says, then, “Madsen.”

“I’ll give you a call later,” Nikolaj says, hanging up before Bobby can answer, and stares at the phone in his hands for a minute before he gently places it on his bedside table, tries to go to sleep.

*

Epstein’s different, because he’s possibly the only person who hasn’t used the word slump, or regression, or any similar word phrased into delicate and not so delicate questions about why Nikolaj hasn’t been able to score.

They took Nikolaj’s linemate, one of the backbones of the team, seven years of service and the most beautiful passing Nikolaj’s seen, and they got a pick. Trading the present for the future is perhaps better than selling the future for a mere gamble of grasping the present — not that Pittsburgh’s particularly worried, with the word ‘dynasty’ thrown around more often than not these days, as often as ‘rebuild’ is used for the Sabres — but watching your management choose to tank and then happily let you take the blame for the fact you aren’t winning…it’s unpleasant. It’s been unpleasant for years now, but for seven years Bobby stood shoulder to shoulder with him and told him what they said didn’t mean shit, and Nikolaj tried to believe him.

Nikolaj doesn’t know if the reporting’s meant to be willfully stupid or that simply comes naturally, because he can no longer count how many times this season he’s been asked why his production’s down, and it’s only October. Every time he wants to snap “Management traded our second best points man, a guy who played on my line for five straight seasons, for a piece of paper, and you want to know why my production’s down? I can’t even begin to guess.” He doesn’t say it, of course. He doesn’t see the use in stating the obvious, if they don’t have any use in seeing the obvious.

Which is to say, Nikolaj can’t say he’s particularly excited to talk to the press. He never is, but this is especially true after a fourth straight regulation loss, another game in which he hasn’t managed to score. He had an assist, but that doesn’t suit the storyline of his descent into mediocrity.

Epstein shoots him a smile, just a quirk of the lips from the right of him as Nikolaj exchanges his gear for a Sabres t-shirt. Nikolaj doesn’t smile back — it wouldn’t do to shock reporters into using ‘uncharacteristically…whatever the opposite of stoic is in English’ — but he’s a little tempted to.

“Four weeks in, would you say you’ve developed some chemistry with Carter and Errol?” Epstein asks, after Nikolaj fields two questions that both use ‘dwindling production’, once in reference to the team, the other about him specifically.

“It’s a process,” Nikolaj says shortly. Carter’s green, fresh out of college, and he’s having difficulty adjusting. Errol, on the other hand, went from bottom six on a playoff team to top line on theirs, and it’s clearly gone to his head, his shifts punctuated with showy, dangerous plays that need more skill to pull off than he has. Nikolaj started counting the number of turnovers and takeaways directly on him that lead to goals against, before he realised that was petty and beneath him and forced himself to stop. That’s the video coach’s job, not his.

With anyone else, he’d stop there, but Epstein’s still looking at him, hand curled loosely around his recorder, and Nikolaj flicks his eyes away from the camera, meets his eyes. “It’s always difficult playing with people you don’t have a history with, but hopefully we’ll improve as we know each other better on and off the ice,” Nikolaj adds.

“Thank you,” Epstein says, and Nikolaj nods minutely before he takes another question about how bad he is.


	39. Robbie/Georgie; sick

“Okay,” Georgie says. “Two bottles of water and one bottle of Gatorade on your desk, Tylenol Cold, cough drops, Kleenex.”

Robbie doesn’t know if Georgie’s telling him this or just doing a mental checklist or something. In case it’s the first one, he grunts acknowledgment.

“You need anything else right now?” Georgie asks.

Shrugging seems like it’ll take too much work, so Robbie grunts again.

“Want me to bring you anything after class?” Georgie asks.

Robbie considers. It takes a lot longer than it should, because everything’s harder right now. Thinking, moving, fucking breathing. He keeps forgetting he can’t breathe through his nose and then causing himself agony.

“Tea?” he says finally.

“What kind?” Georgie asks.

“Tea,” Robbie repeats.

“Okay,” Georgie says, sitting down in the tiny space between Robbie’s body and the edge of the bed. Robbie scoots back a little. The last thing the Terriers need is them both out. Robbie bets they’d be furious if they knew how much Georgie’s been around, and honestly Robbie should have told him to go, but he’s selfish.

“Any preference for your notes?” Georgie asks. “Like, do you want point form, or basically word for word or—”

“Georgie,” Robbie rasps out.

“Yeah?” Georgie asks. His hand’s on Robbie’s hip over the blankets, and Robbie can feel the weight of it, if not the heat. If anything, Georgie would probably feel cold right now. Robbie’s mamma told him to come home to sweat it out, but even the idea of leaving the building made him want to die. Shuffling down the hall to the bathroom has been the most exercise he’s gotten in days, and it sucks.

His mamma came two days ago with supplies, declared it ‘just a cold, you baby’, but smoothed his hair back from his sweaty forehead and got him a smoothie when he asked for one. The bag of supplies looked like enough to take care of a damn team for a week, but Robbie’s pretty sure he’s run through some of them — Kleenex definitely, considering Georgie’s taken out his garbage twice — and yet there’s a fresh supply of it. Robbie’s pretty sure Georgie made a run to CVS, and not a cheap one. Robbie’s going to have to remember that, pay him back, with dinner at the least if Georgie won’t take cash.

“What’s up, Robbie?” Georgie asks.

“Huh?” Robbie asks.

“You said—” Georgie says, then, “Never mind. You’ll be good for a couple hours?”

“Sure,” Robbie says. If experience tells him anything, it’s that he’s going to pass out basically the moment Georgie leaves, and wake up either when he coughs himself awake or when Georgie comes back. He’s got his fingers crossed for the second one.

“Remember I’ve got your keys, so you have to prop your door open if you need to go anywhere, okay?”

“Where would I go?” Robbie asks, mustering all his sarcasm.

“For a piss?” Georgie says, which is. A point. “I left a brick by the door.”

Robbie wants to ask him where the hell he got a brick, but. Eh, he just spent all his effort on the last thing. Whatever that was.

“Be back in a couple hours,” Georgie says.

“You don’t have to,” Robbie says.

“Be back in a couple hours,” Georgie repeats firmly, and Robbie’s not going to argue.


	40. Jaya/Brianna; stage fright

Jaya is nervous. Jaya is palms-sweating, doubting every single decision she’s ever made in her entire life nervous. She knows she’s being ridiculous, she knows there’s nothing to be nervous about, but that didn’t help her before she had to do class presentations, and it doesn’t help her now, when instead of speaking in front of thirty people, she’ll be speaking in front of thousands. It’s not live, and if she messes up she’s sure they’ll allow her a retake, but that doesn’t make her feel much better.

Brianna’s filming her part while Jaya’s pumping herself up — or making herself nauseous, more accurately. She nails it the first time, at least in Jaya’s opinion, but they film three more takes before they let her go. This probably doesn’t say great things about how Jaya’s going to do.

Brianna touches her elbow on her way out. “It’s not so bad,” she says, which must mean Jaya’s visibly nervous.

Maybe not, if you’re as confident as Brianna seems to be. “You did well,” Jaya says. It didn’t look like it took her any effort.

Brianna makes a face. “I hate cameras,” she says, which Jaya never would have guessed. Not in an insulting way, just that she seemed comfortable. Calm. Basically the opposite of Jaya’s sweaty palms and rapid heart. “If I could play without dealing with any of this I’d be happier. But hey, the fact that we’re filming this means we’re awesome, right? So just — price you pay for being awesome. Paying your dues or whatever.”

She smiles then, wide, the crinkles of her eyes caking under the heavy makeup they put on her for the ad spot. Jaya’s never seen her wearing makeup before. Jaya doesn’t wear much herself, and they put so much on her it feels like battle paint. Jaya’s a little afraid she’ll crack her foundation if she smiles back, but she can’t help herself.

“You got this, Singh,” Brianna says, and Jaya goes hot under the makeup when Brianna smacks her ass on her way out.


	41. Panthers, David; weird

“Is it just me, or are they weird?” Gally asks.

“ _You_ are weird,” Parey says, which is…not untrue. At all. But also doesn’t answer the question. Joe’s seen Chapman in…well not that many ways when it comes down to it, but even with Jake’s descriptions of The Best David, a Chapman Joe doesn’t think actually exists anywhere but in Jake’s lovestruck brain, this is weird.

Volkie says something. Chapman throws his head back and laughs. Which, Volkie’s funny. Joe totally thinks Volkie’s funny. Volkie’s not that funny. Also Joe’s a little amazed Chapman can laugh. Jake mentioned Chapman laughing once, but Joe didn’t believe him.

“I wanna see what’s so funny,” Gally says, and gets two steps before Parey snags the back of his jacket.

“Don’t scare off Captain America’s boyfriend,” Parey says, very quiet, even though no one’s close enough to hear.

“If Volkie doesn’t scare him off, how would I?” Gally argues, and Gally does have a point, since if shit goes down it’s safe to say either Volkie or Gally was involved, but much more likely it was both of them. The worst thing to ever happen to the Panthers was Gally getting a partner in crime, probably closely followed by Lourdey broken-heartedly abdicating his captainly roles and leaving Joe and Parey to pick up the pieces for months at a time. Those two giggling idiots are like the personification of Joe’s neverending headache.

Jake, finally free of interviews, comes out of the room and it’s a damn good thing there aren’t any cameras or not in the know people around, because the look on his face, smile practically cracking his cheeks, is enough to give away everything, and the lameass bro handshake he tries with Chapman isn’t a very good cover.

Joe would like to amend his statement. Now all of his headaches are in one place.

“Volkie, liberate me!” Gally says, after an attempt to shrug his jacket off to escape just ends in Parey grabbing his collar, and Parey shoots Joe a longsuffering look.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how much I feel you right now,” Joe says.


	42. Adam; return

“What have you done with my handsome boy?” is the first thing his mother says to him when he comes back to Dauphin after his first year in Juniors.

“Ma,” Adam says, then, “Ma!” when she reaches up, pulling him down by the ears so he’s her height.

“Feels like straw,” she says, scrubbing her hand through his hair. “This some dare or something?”

“Everyone was doing it for playoffs,” Adam mumbles. He knows it looks stupid. It looks stupid on everyone else too. But it’s not like he was going to be the only guy who didn’t. He doesn’t need to stand out.

“Never thought I’d wish you’d grown a stupid moustache instead, but here we are,” she says, releasing her grip to roughly pat his cheek. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Adam says, a little rough. It’s been too long. He was happy to get out of Dauphin. Happy to have his own room, to be able to take a shower longer than five minutes without someone banging on the door and telling him to quit wasting water. His billet family’s really nice, give him seconds of everything without even asking, laughing about teenage stomachs, go to all his games to cheer him on but don’t crowd him at home, don’t ask anything more from him than a bit of babysitting and to do the dishes after dinner. Every time he was grateful, though, he remembered this, or not this exactly, just. Home.

“Where’s Dana?” Adam asks.

“At a friends,” his mom says. “We might have time to get some dye for you before she sees what you did to your beautiful hair. She won’t even know who you are.”

Adam considers protesting, but it really does look stupid, and it isn’t like he wants to keep looking stupid. That would be, well. Stupid.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Good to be home.”

“Sure, sure,” his mom says. On the way to the pharmacy, her eyes on the road, she adds, “We missed you around here.”

Adam looks out the window. “I missed you too,” he admits.


	43. Jake/David; communication

David knows Jake prefers if he…enunciates his preferences. Before or after the act, but specifically during. He’s patient about David’s reluctance, the way he feels awkward about it, mortified, like Jake’s going to balk or laugh or something, even though he never has before. But David knows he’d prefer David would speak up more.

Jake talks a lot in bed. Encouragement, praise, minor course corrections, like telling David to use more tongue, or to stop unless he’s okay with Jake coming. David likes Jake’s talking. Likes it because it makes him feel more secure, knowing that if Jake likes it he’ll tell him, and if he doesn’t, he’ll also let him know, but also, it’s — it does something to him, Jake’s voice, strained and thin, telling him he likes what he’s doing, effusive in his compliments, fingers petting through David’s hair as he tells him he’s never seen anyone more beautiful, the sort of bedroom talk David’s been assured by media is meaningless, except for the fact that Jake says it out of bed too.

It’s not fair to deprive Jake of that feeling, of that security of knowing you’re doing exactly the right thing. David’s discomfort shouldn’t be more important than Jake’s. Jake asks him, sometimes, what he wants, and when David freezes, Jake always reframes it into yes or no questions. More often yes questions than no questions.

It doesn’t seem hard for him. Maybe it isn’t. David swallows, pretends he’s Jake, that it’s just that easy, that he knows the answer’s going to be yes. “Can I fuck you?” he asks.

Jake chokes on his beer. “Yes,” he says, as soon as he’s stopped coughing, David slapping his back. “Right now? Yes, fuck.”

“Do you want to get your breath ba—” David starts, but Jake’s already shedding clothes on the way to the bedroom.

It’s safest to stick to facts. Undebatable things, like, “You’re really hot,” when Jake’s clinging heat around his fingers, flushed and gorgeous, “You’re so tight,” when he’s inching into him, because it’s always amazing, how tight Jake is, no matter how much David preps him, how the first thrust inside is always a dragging breathless rush.

Directions like, “Spread your legs wider,” and “Jerk yourself off,” and David goes silent again when Jake’s come is spilling over his fist, but it isn’t shyness, just breathless, overwhelmed lust.

David doesn’t realise until it’s over, Jake panting on the bed and David discarding the condom, getting a wet cloth to clean them up, that Jake didn’t say much of anything.

“Was that okay?” David asks. “Did I make you—”

“That was crazy fucking hot,” Jake says breathlessly. “And I’m dead.”

“Good dead?” David asks, because Jake says he’s dead a lot — obviously in a figurative way — and it’s usually good but not always.

“Best dead,” Jake says. “Come here,” he adds, and David doesn’t hesitate.


	44. Joe's Wedding (Pt 1)

David’s never received a wedding invitation before. David barely receives mail at all, preferring paperless billing, so it’s confusing to see heavy, expensive looking card stock beside junk mail, more confusing when he opens it and sees the names of Joe Forster and his fiancee.

David stares down at the invitation for some time, then he calls Jake.

“Good, you got it,” Jake says. “Joe says he wasn’t going to waste fancy paper on me since I’m a groomsman so I don’t have a choice so I wasn’t sure when you’d get yours.”

“I can’t—” David says.

“I’ll be at the head table. Like, not the whole time, obviously, but for dinner and stuff. But like, Volkie and Em will be there, and Nat’s invited herself as my plus one, and Allie’s coming anyway because her and Jenn are officially bros now, so you wouldn’t be like — Joe said he’d put you at Volkie’s table for sure, Volkie’s cool with not sitting with the Panthers,” Jake says, all in a rush.

“Forster barely knows me,” David says.

“Yeah, but like, he knows how important you are to me, so,” Jake says, easy, like it doesn’t take any effort to say it, like it’s a simple fact.

“You want me to come,” David says.

“I really want you to come,” Jake says.

David chews his lip.

“It’s after training with Slava wraps up, and I know Florida’s like a fucking swamp in August but it’s all inside and you can stay with me, you know, get like, a little vacation before you go—”

“Okay,” David says. “I’ll come.”

“Really?” Jake asks, sounding so surprised David thinks he’s offended.

“You didn’t think I would?” David asks.

“I kind of thought I’d have to ask Volkie to convince you,” Jake says. “Maybe bring in the big guns with Em.”

“How is Emily the big guns?” David asks.

“I’ve literally never seen someone talk you into more things than Em does,” Jake says. “She’s magic.”

“She just presents logical arguments,” David says.

“Yeah that’s basically magic to me,” Jake says, and David can hear the grin in his voice when David laughs. “You’ll come? Really?”

“Really,” David says.

“Okay, I have to call Em and tell her to stop planning her arguments,” Jake says. “She’s going to be disappointed, she made a list and everything.”

“I mean, I can say no,” David says.

“Don’t you dare,” Jake says quickly. “No takebacks.”

“No takebacks,” David repeats. “Really, Jake?”

“Called it locked it can’t stop it,” Jake says. “You’re coming.”


	45. Joe's Wedding (Pt. 2)

Training with Slava wraps up two weeks before the wedding, and everyone splits up, Kiro and Emily to visit her parents, Jake to visit his, and David and Oleg back to DC. It’s strange, because David goes far longer without seeing Jake and Kiro and Emily during the season, but he misses them immediately, is surprised by how relieved he feels to see Emily at the airport, waving wildly as soon as he gets off his plane.

“Jake figured it’d be a bad idea for him to pick you up,” Emily says as they step outside into a heat so heavy it’s almost like a physical blow. “So he’s hiding in my car. Kir’s picking up wedding presents because he’s a procrastinator.” David’s eyes widen. He knew he’d forgotten something. “He’s picking one up for you too, said you’d probably just write a cheque like a ‘no-fun Davidson’, so.”

David’s too relieved to be offended, and then completely overwhelmed with relief at both the cool interior of Emily’s car and the fact that Jake is, in fact, sitting in her backseat.

“I’ll drop you guys off, please don’t have sex in Kir’s car,” Emily says, and David goes scarlet, but Jake just laughs, says, “No promises,” catching David’s hand and rubbing his thumb over David’s knuckles.

“How are you?” Jake asks.

“You talked to me this morning,” David points out. “You look better than you sounded.”

David’s missed the bachelor party by a day, which he can’t say he regrets, because he’s never heard Jake sound more hungover than he did this morning. It wasn’t a typical bachelor’s party, from what David’s been told, no strippers or whatever like the movies always show, just apparently half the roster of the Florida Panthers, a number of Joe’s friends and family from Alberta, and ‘probably literally’ tons of alcohol.

“Not saying much, probably,” Jake says. “I’m still pretty, you know.”

“Don’t throw up in the car either,” Emily adds.

“Doing my best, Em,” Jake says. “Joe has never been smarter when he said to do the bachelor party three days before the wedding. He just got up like, an hour ago and texted me that he hates me and wants to die and that his best man’s sleeping in his bath tub. Amateur.”

“Stop being jealous that you’re not Joe’s best man,” Emily says.

“I’m not jealous,” Jake protests. “Family first, I get it.”

“He’s so jealous,” Emily says to David.

“I’m not,” Jake mumbles, then puts his head on David’s shoulder. It can’t be comfortable, the way he’s twisted around in his seat, somehow pale and clammy under his tan, but he shuts his eyes and goes loose against David.

Emily tells him about the bachelorette party, which is tonight and apparently a bar crawl and possibly strippers. “Jenn hasn’t decided,” she says. “We probably won’t and say we did or something.”

“Tell them to dress like Panthers,” Jake mumbles, eyes still closed. “Sexy hockey stripping.”

“I think Jenn and I have had more than enough of that one,” Emily says. “And David.”

Jake makes an offended noise, and David squeezes his hand.

“Also your sisters are going,” Emily says. “So maybe no hockey theme.”

“Ew,” Jake says. “Stop talking about this.”

“That’s what I thought,” Emily says, and tells David about how her thesis is going. Kiro’s sent him some of the books she’s working from, unrelentingly dark short stories from nineteenth century Russia. Her thesis hinges on the humour in them, and if there is any David doesn’t see it, but at least he’s able to follow along a little better now that he’s read some.

“Here’s you,” Emily says. “Thanks for not throwing up, Jake.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Jake says, but straightens up, looking a little better. “Make sure my sisters don’t do anything awful.”

“No promises,” Emily says. “You guys are coming over tomorrow for lunch, right?”

David wasn’t aware of this, and it’s kind of strange thinking of them making plans without his input, but he definitely doesn’t mind going to Kiro’s, which he’s sure they both know.

“Yep,” Jake says. “Don’t drink as much as I did. You’ll regret it.”

“Not even a question,” Emily says. “Maybe take a nap now?”

“Nap,” Jake says, like Emily just had the greatest idea he’s ever heard. “Nap, David?”

David shrugs. He was up early to fly, and he can’t deny it sounds good.

Jake isn’t too hungover to insist on taking David’s luggage himself, and David knows better than to protest, just follows Jake after waving to Emily.

“Are Natalie and Allison—” David asks, hesitating before the door.

“Nah, I kicked them out this morning,” Jake says.

“Jake!” David says. “You can’t just—”

“And by that I mean got them a suite and told them to charge whatever they want to the room,” Jake says. “Trust me, they are definitely cool with being kicked out. Allie already got a massage.”

“There’s room for them here,” David says, though he can’t deny he’s relieved. He doesn’t dislike Jake’s sisters, they’re just — it’s not really the same as when it’s the two of them. There’s pressure there that he doesn’t feel when it’s just Jake.

“If they were here we couldn’t nap,” Jake says.

“I’m not sure that’s true,” David says.

“Nap,” Jake repeats.

“Yes, Jake, nap,” David says and Jake grins at him and heads to his room the second they’re inside, dozing on his bed by the time David’s stripped to underwear and a t-shirt, stirring when David gets into bed, but then only to wrap an arm around him and pull him in.


	46. David, Kiro, Emily; ugly baby

Maxim is so, so tiny. David of course knows that babies are small, he’s held many, and some quite young, but never as young as Maxim is, not even two days old, a red little ball David thinks is kind of ugly, though of course he’d never say it. He knows he’ll get cute soon.

“He ugly, huh?” Kiro asks.

Emily rolls her eyes.

“Takes after father,” Kiro says.

“You’re not ugly,” David says, then realising his mistake, “He’s not ugly.”

“He’ll be beautiful like mother soon,” Kiro says, and Emily rolls her eyes again. She looks tired, but she’s been smiling since David got there, even when Kiro called their baby ugly, which David doesn’t think is something you’re supposed to say.

“Do you want to hold him, David?” she asks.

“I mean, he’s sleeping,” David says, but Emily carefully transfers him to David’s arms, and he doesn’t move at all. David’s hand has never felt as large as it does right now, cradling his soft, vulnerable head as he sleeps. He’s suddenly very afraid he’s going to drop him, so he sits down on the couch, moving slowly so not to wake him.

“Hi Maxim,” David whispers.

“Max,” Kiro says. “Max, Davidson. Not big enough for big name yet.”

“Hi Max,” David corrects himself.

“You guys don’t have to whisper,” Emily says, looking amused. “Kir, seriously?”

“I’m whispering because Davidson’s whispering,” Kiro whispers. “Did not want him to feel left out.”

“What if he wakes up?” David asks, afraid to raise his voice, even if Emily says it’s fine.

“You’re adorable,” Emily says instead of answering, walking over and kissing David’s temple, fingertips brushing over Max’s cheek. “I’m going for a nap, don’t wake me up unless the house is on fire.”

Kiro catches her hand as she’s departing, kissing the back of it.

“He’s so ugly, right?” Kiro says, but like he means the complete opposite.

David stares down at the rumpled red ball in his arms. “I think he’s handsome,” he stubbornly lies, though it feels true when he says it.


	47. Gerard, Yvette; sober together

There are many good things about living alone. The fridge is stocked with only things you’d like to eat — though perhaps there are also a few of Sven and Yvette’s especial favourites, because Gerard’s concerned they’ll starve or only eat delivery if he doesn’t feed them occasionally. All decorating choices are yours alone, the toilet paper roll is always in the correct direction, you don’t have to clean anyone’s mess but your own. Some of the other guys on the team take it further than that, employing housekeeping so they never have to deal with their own messes, but Gerard’s mother would never let him hear the end of it if he did the same. There’s no obligation to wear clothing, though Gerard does regardless. He’s never lived with a partner before, but he has had roommates, not to mention billeting when he was younger, and this is infinitely preferable.

The only time living alone is terrible is when you’re sick or injured. Terrible for several reasons: the fact that no one’s taking care of you, of course, but also the loneliness when your team is off doing what you’re supposed to, doing it without you, and there’s nothing to do but watch from afar and feel sorry for yourself.

Sven came by with groceries before the Sens left town. He must have consulted their nutritionist, because there wasn’t anything Gerard wasn’t allowed to eat included, though he could have done without the three kinds of tomatoes, which he only buys when he’s making Sven and Yvette dinner. Still, Gerard can’t complain. Any excuse not to leave the house when driving is out of the question, and limping around a grocery store hoping not to be recognized sounds like his idea of personal hell.

Gerard’s watching the Sens-Caps game, wishing he was allowed a beer, because it’s not going the way he’d like it to, when there’s a knock on the door, and he trudges his way over to find Yvette, laden down with take-out and a six-pack.

“Can’t drink on the painkillers,” Gerard says, after she takes over his kitchen to spoon out pasta and salad.

“Sober together,” she sighs, hand going to her belly, something reflexive he’s noticed since she got pregnant.

“And during this game too,” Gerard says. He glances back into the living room, but it’s still 3-0, not even halfway through the first.

They grimly watch the Caps score again, Yvette finishing her plate and then eating off his rather than going back to the kitchen. She falls asleep in the third, head on his shoulder, and Gerard tries to ignore the way his stomach clenches, first then and when he gently nudges her up, watches her rub her eyes like a sleepy child.

“Stay here tonight,” Gerard says. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want her to drive tired, but mostly he just wants her here.

“Okay,” she says, easy, and it’s easier, waking up the next morning to Yvette triumphantly presenting him cereal and a soft tired smile.


	48. Robbie/Matty; Barista!AU (Cont)

Robbie has a successful date, and he’s gotta admit, he’s pretty surprised about it, especially after the whole pile of ‘nope’ that’s been dogging him so far.

“How was your date?” Matty asks, with this little frown like he just knows Robbie’s going to say ‘terrible’ and then rant for an hour. Which, admittedly, has been kind of the status quo. He doesn’t even know why he’s doing this. Except now he kind of does, because date! Successful date! With chemistry and a kiss good night and follow-up plans and everything!

“Good,” Robbie says.

Matty’s frown deepens. He’s probably waiting for the catch.

“I know, I’m as surprised as you are, believe me,” Robbie says, flinging himself onto the couch beside Matty. “But no drama, no randomly being on Georgie’s team, no trying to slip me the tongue ten minutes in —”

Matty grimaces as hard as Robbie does. That was an epic nope.

“Just like, a normal date,” Robbie says. “A good, normal date.”

“You going to see him again?” Matty asks.

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “We’re going to grab a drink on Thursday.”

“You already made plans?” Matty asks.

“I mean, seemed easiest, with the crazy all-over the place schedule I’ve got,” Robbie says. Don’t reschedule me for Friday morning even if it’s an emergency, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I won’t,” Matty says. “So you like him then.”

“Yeah,” Robbie says.

“Good,” Matty says, but he’s still frowning.

“Don’t worry,” Robbie says. “I’m not going to be an idiot about this, I’ve learned my lesson.”

“It’s not being an idiot to care about someone,” Matty says.

“I mean, it is if that someone’s Georgie Dineen,” Robbie says. “But whatever,” he adds, before Matty can protest. “Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m a big boy.”

“I’m not worried,” Matty says, but Robbie notices the frown still hovering around the corners of his mouth.


	49. David/Jake; second potato

David has this crazy love for potatoes. He’ll pretend he doesn’t, because David’s like, not allowed to like anything more than other things, so if he loves potatoes that means he’s being mean to rice or something. Jake doesn’t know. But Jake has never seen David meet a potato he doesn’t like. Maybe vodka, but that doesn’t count. If there’s a mashed potato option, he’s eating it, or more likely guiltily ordering the veggie side and then looking so sadly at Jake’s that Jake can’t not give it to him. And if he’s cheating on his diet, which is rare enough it makes Jake feel guilty, even though Jake is actually pretty good about his diet even though it’s evil, thanks, he’s cheating with some kind of potatoes.

“I’ve never felt jealous of a vegetable before,” Jake tells Volkie. “But I think David loves potatoes more than he loves me.”

“Potatoes are not vegetables,” Volkie says, and Jake frowns and checks his phone.

“Huh,” Jake says. First tomatoes, now potatoes. “And wait, you didn’t say David loves me more than potatoes.”

“You try to steal fries from him?” Volkie asks.

“I’m not stupid,” Jake says.

Volkie slides his sunglasses down so Jake can see just how smug he looks. Which is super smug, by the way.

“David doesn’t love potatoes more than me,” Jake mutters.

*

It’s kind of terrifying, the look David gives him when he tries to steal one of David’s home fries.

“You have your own,” David says.

“I want yours,” Jake says, and when David keeps frowning at him he remembers Volkie’s stupid evil look.

 _David does not love potatoes more than me_ , Jake tells himself.

“Can I have one?” Jake asks.

“No,” David says.

Jake frowns down at his own stupid potatoes.


	50. Gabe/Stephen; Stephen wrangling

Stephen can be a grump. This isn’t news for like, anyone who has ever known him, and neither is the fact that Stephen’s grumpiness can basically be dispelled with one good hug. That one might actually be a secret outside of the Marksons and Petersens, though, because when he’s in a bad mood he avoids hugs, not because he doesn’t want them but, Gabe thinks, because he knows that they’re his weakness and he likes being grumpy once he’s hit it, doesn’t like something getting in the way of that grumpy.

He’s not sure what’s got Stephen annoyed, because when he asked Stephen said “I’m not grumpy” in the most grumpy tone possible, and Gabe knows any more questions will just push the grumpy into actually mad, which he doesn’t want. Gabe tried to give him a hug from the get-go, but Stephen scooted out of reach with the speed and anger of some kind of big cat, so Gabe has to be stealthy about this.

He catches Stephen from behind in the kitchen, while he’s getting a glass of water and glaring at the water dispenser, which is admittedly way too slow. You’d think Stephen would have learned not to leave his back exposed, but all the better for Gabe, who gets an arm around him from behind and tightens his grip when Stephen bristles, then rests his chin on the top of Stephen’s head when Stephen relaxes into him.

“Sup?” Gabe asks.

“Just—” Stephen says, shrugging. “School.”

“School’s for nerds,” Gabe says agreeably, and Stephen huffs out a half laugh half breath.

Gabe kisses his temple. “Want to talk about it or talk about literally anything else so you don’t have to think about it?” he asks.

“How’s Kurmazov’s wedding planning going?” Stephen asks, which is a pretty clear answer, and Gabe has no problem telling him about Dmitry’s ever-worsening mental state while Stephen relaxes into him more and more by degrees.


	51. Kiro/Emily, Max; strange looking little man

There are conflicting feelings when they take Max away from him the first time. Kirill feels more bereft than should be possible, watching a stranger hold his child, take him away, but there’s also a thread of relief, because presumably they know what they’re doing, and Kirill does not. Kirill has held babies, of course, has babysat quite a lot in recent months, Panthers with children happy to give him some firsthand experience if that meant they could have date night. That’s all very different however, than holding his own baby, small and red and a little squashed looking, impossibly small. Kirill’s never felt more helpless in his entire life.

“Didn’t feel small to me,” Em grumbles when Kirill attempts to put it into words.

“You are a warrior,” Kirill informs her, and she smiles tiredly.

The helpless feeling is ten times more intense when they’re driving home, Em sitting with the newly named Maxim in the backseat, Kirill’s hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, ten-and-two, driving as carefully as he did at his driver’s test.

“They just let us leave,” Kirill says hysterically.

“He’s ours,” Em says, then, “I know, right?”

Max sleeps through the trip home, and Kirill fighting with the car seat. Kirill hopes that’s a good omen.

Orange and Magenta are lodging with David and Jake, and it’s strange to come home without them winding around his feet or pointedly ignoring him. Quiet, even though they’re quiet. He feels like every step he takes is loud, heavy, guaranteed to wake Max, though he keeps sleeping, still nestled in the car seat, little hospital beanie on his head.

Kirill examines him, his tiny ten fingers and ten toes — hidden under the blanket, but he counted them before — his snub nose and frowny forehead. “You’re a strange looking little man,” Kirill tells him in Russian to avoid getting in trouble with Em, who is also hovering over Max, possibly counting his fingers too. It’s their new hobby.

Max smacks his tiny little lips.

“I like you though,” Kirill adds.


	52. Jake/Gabe; endorphins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for underage, though they, at 17 and 16, are both legal in Canada, where they are.

Gabe can’t feel his legs. That’s probably a good thing, because he’s got a bitch of a bruise on his thigh that’s been throbbing with his heartbeat since the adrenaline wore away after the game. Apparently blowjobs fix everything. Endorphins or something. Gabe knows science, Stephen, just because he gets Bs doesn’t mean he doesn’t know science.

“Still with me, Marky?” Lourdey asks from somewhere around the vicinity of his hip, sounding amused.

“I can’t feel my legs, which is awesome,” Gabe says, then, “Thank you for the blowjob.”

Jake snorts, then buries a laugh in Gabe’s side, breath ticklish against his skin. Gabe squirms away, and oh, there are his legs again, and there’s that bruise, throbbing on schedule. He should probably take some Aspirin. Can’t depend on blowjobs for everything.

“I’ll get you back in a sec,” Gabe says. “Can you get me some Aspirin, though?”

“You’re not getting me back for anything,” Jake says, holding out two pills and a bottle of water while Gabe’s got literal tears in his eyes trying to pull his underwear back up, because everything fucking _hurts_. “Raincheck, man.”

“That’s not fair,” Gabe says.

“You’ll get me back some other time, no worries,” Jake says.

“Unless Ashley jumps on you the second we get home and you’re taken again,” Gabe says, and Jake shrugs agreement. Gabe guesses he’ll be getting some regardless in that case, so it doesn’t matter. “That girl’s awful, dude.”

“Not cool,” Jake says. “She’s nice.”

She is not nice. Gabe dated her friend for half a year, and she smiles out of one side of her mouth and spits poison at everyone she can out of the other. Gabe’s sure she is nice to Jake, since he’s basically top prize for eleventh grade girls, and dating him would make her look good. Gabe is so, so ready to be done high school. He’s afraid when he graduates and leaves Jake alone he’s going to, well. Date someone like Ashley, and he has a bad feeling that’s going to happen anyway. Jake has terrible taste. Except for Gabe, obviously, though that’s not dating, just endorphins and hangouts. Which are pretty great.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Gabe says. “Wanna watch something?”

“Promised I’d call Allie,” Jake says. “But after I do?”

“Sure, I’ll just lie here suffering,” Gabe says, and Jake pats his thigh — the good one, because he’s a good guy — and leaves him to his suffering.


	53. Gerard, Sven, Yvette; romantic couple's trip

Sven gets passed over for the All-Star game for the first time in years, and he’s ecstatic about it. “Curaçao,” he announces. “You’re coming.”

“Oh I am, am I?” Gérard asks, but he doesn’t argue. Sun sounds good right now.

Gérard doesn’t think it’s particularly strange until Riley’s gaping at him in response to an offhand mention of his plans. Riley deals with Carruthers on a regular basis and is married to a man who is by all accounts…well, Gérard will be polite. It’s very difficult to surprise him, is Gérard’s point.

“What?” Gérard asks. “You’re going away too.”

“On a romantic couple’s trip,” Riley says. “Like I’d assume the Olsens—”

“She’s still Gagnon,” Gérard says. “You’re married to someone Québécois , you should know better.”

“Sorry,” Dan says. “But dude, romantic couple’s trip.”

“They have an infant,” Gérard says. “I don’t know how romantic a trip with a baby can be.”

“So are you going to, like, babysit?” Dan asks. “Let them sneak some romance in?”

Gérard makes a face, but he’s sure he will, and it isn’t a problem, even though Dan makes it sound like one. Hanging out with his namesake’s never a burden, and Sven and Yvette get little time alone as it is, between the baby and their schedules. He shrugs. “If they need me to,” he says. “I don’t see the big deal. It seemed like a better idea than going on that terrible idea in Florida.”

Riley winces. Carruthers spearheaded that mistake in the making, and more than a half dozen Senators and their significant others foolishly agreed. Gérard has very little faith they’ll be practice ready at the conclusion of the break.

“Fair enough,” Riley says. “Have fun?”

“I will,” Gérard says, firm, but he can’t help but feel uncomfortable about it now.


	54. Vinny, Meg; shinny

Megan doesn’t really like hockey, which is a shame, because she’s really, really good at it. It’s not just hockey: she kicks Thomas’ butt at tennis and basketball, is just as good as him at baseball and frisbee, and is a way better striker when they’re kicking the ball around the park than Thomas is as a goalie. 

Thomas is better at hockey, but he has a lot more practice than her at it, because she doesn’t play it at all unless it’s ball hockey for gym class or they pull out the net from Thomas’ garage and she helps him practice his saves, because unfortunately you can’t really do that without someone’s help. The positioning, sure, and all the movements his goalie coach showed him, but it isn’t the same as actually stopping something that’s flying at you, and Thomas’ parents are nice and help him, but they always end up lobbing things over, not really shooting. It’s like the hockey equivalent of playing catch — fun, but not really very helpful.

Meg’s different. Meg’s shots vary from the gentle kind his parents shoot at him to sneaky fakes to booming ones that sting his shins when he isn’t fast enough, that land satisfyingly hard in his glove when he does. It isn’t the same as doing it on the ice, in full padding, but it feels more like that, like the way you’re told to stretch until you feel a bit of a strain but not pain. Practices and games, they’re strain, and sometimes pain, and the sessions with her are kind of like that, enough that he feels he got something accomplished at the end of it.

They don’t do it that often, because Thomas knows she doesn’t really enjoy it, would much rather play any of the other games they both like, or go climb a tree or race him through the park, so he doesn’t ask that often. But sometimes, when he’s feeling antsy, she drags the net out of the garage without a word, and when he does ask, she always says yes.


	55. Vladimir, Tonya, Anton; on his heavily padded bottom

Vladimir likes to skate, though he doesn’t do enough of it. That sounds foolish, because of course he skates, straps them on almost every day, but that’s entirely different than just skating. He finds, in addition, he very much likes skating with Anton.

The first time Anton was on the ice was in his arms, and Vladimir was in full padding. He wailed, inconsolable, until he was handed back to Tonya, and wouldn’t go back into Vladimir’s arms even when he took his mask off, face turned into Tonya’s neck like he was hiding, miserable little snuffles that weren’t muffled enough against her skin that Vladimir couldn’t hear them. He tried not to take it personally, though it was difficult. Tried not to take it as a sign, and it seems like it wasn’t, because Anton loves the ice, loved it the first time Vladimir took him out, equipment free this time, has loved it every time since.

Anton’s two the first time he takes to the ice in his own skates, so small Vladimir’s fingers are clumsy on the laces. Tonya’s a little doubtful about it all, but she straps on skates of her own, wobbling a little the first time she steps onto the ice, before Vladimir steadies her, then setting herself to smooth, if hesitant strides.

“You have him,” she says, not so much confirmation as an order.

“I have him,” Vladimir promises, and everyone’s careful to skate around the space in the corner where Vladimir settles himself onto one knee, ignoring the cold that seeps into the knee of his pants, and lowers Anton onto the ice in front of him, helps him get his balance.

He lets him fall on his heavily padded bottom a few times, much to Tonya’s loud dismay. “He can’t be afraid of falling,” Vladimir says, and Antosha doesn’t seem to be, lets out a startled breath but doesn’t cry and doesn’t shy away from trying again, tiny mittened hands curled around Vladimir’s fingers. He doesn’t rebel at all, in fact, until they’re leaving the ice, and then he turns in Vladimir’s arms, tries to wriggle out of them, back to their little corner.

“Got another player in the making, huh Vlad?” Simmons asks.

“I hope so,” Vladimir says, over Tonya muttering “God help us,” in Russian.


	56. Georgie; a piece

Georgie doesn’t know how he gets home. Or he does, he gets an Uber, and the guy takes a look at him and thankfully doesn’t say a single word beyond confirming where they’re going, but he doesn’t feel like he’s _there_ during that ride. Doesn’t feel there when he’s unlocking his door, or kicking his shoes off, or walking straight into his room and getting in bed, and then he’s suddenly completely there, and it’s fucking awful.

Georgie squeezes his eyes shut hard, then harder when all he can see is that bitter twist of Robbie’s mouth, a look he’s seen so often lately he can apparently literally see it with his eyes shut. When all he can think of is that he had Robbie, furious and not the Robbie he knew, as likely to spit venom as to kiss him, but he _had_ him, sort of, as much as Robbie would give him and he threw it away, and for _what_?

His own sanity, probably, and Robbie’s, and he knows he did the right thing, he knows that this thing they had was poison, that ending it now was an infinitely better decision than letting it carry on, letting it destroy them both because there was a part of him, small and stupid, that thought if he just held on Robbie would love him again, or at least remember what it was like when he did. That a bigger, equally stupid part of him knew that wasn’t going to happen, that things were broken beyond repairing, but was willing to take anything he could get, any part of Robbie that Robbie let him.

He ended things, and he finally got to say his piece without Robbie walking out on him before he could get it, and he’s been waiting for that for so long he thought it’d feel like a burden lifting, but it doesn’t. Maybe it will, eventually, but right now all he feels is crushing weight. It didn’t help anything. It didn’t fix a thing, and tomorrow Georgie’s going to have to walk into that room and sit beside Robbie, close enough to feel the heat of his body, and know —

“Fuck,” Georgie says, fist banging his pillow, and they always say that helps, but it doesn’t do a thing, even though the impact hurts, knuckles sore and bruised from getting jammed against the boards, anything less than a whisper of touch to them lighting his nerves up. Even balling his hand hurts, let alone the actual punching, and Egyptian cotton feels like burlap against it.

“Fuck,” Georgie repeats, scrubs his hands over his eyes, which feel as raw as his hand right now, calluses catching the hot thin skin of his eyelids, thumbs coming away wet. “Stop crying,” he mumbles, can hear Robbie saying it, that thread of panic. Robbie never could handle it when someone started crying. The last time he cried in front of Robbie, Robbie pretended he didn’t notice, even when his neck was wet with them. Georgie’s never seen Robbie cry, not once.

Telling himself to stop crying works about as well as Robbie telling him did, maybe even less. He tries to think about other things, about the games they have coming up, the games he needs to be ready for, but that’s so inextricably tied up in Robbie that it’s less changing the subject than wrapping it in a layer of dread, knowing he’s going to have to somehow play at his best beside Robbie when right now he’s not sure how the hell he’s going to manage leaving this bed.

He wonders where Robbie is, hopes he did what he said, that someone’s with him. No shortage on guys who’d be there for him if he needed them, judging by the way the team acts, and Georgie’s grateful for that, he truly is, but all it does is underline the fact that he’s completely alone in this city, that the only person in the area that gives a shit about him hates him.

Georgie’s parents are at work, and there’s no knowing what Dickie and Will’s schedules are like, whether they’re in class or at the library or something, and he wouldn’t want to load it on them anyway. That’s not the way they work. Dickie and Will come to Georgie when they have a problem or need advice or need to vent, it doesn’t go the other way around. Who knows why they still do. He’s a fuck up, but they keep thinking he has the answers for everything, and he doesn’t want to give them another impression, doesn’t want them to know that’s a lie. He remembers when Will was in the third grade they had a project on their heroes. Will picked Georgie, said it again when Georgie covered his tuition, hugging him tighter than he had since probably around the same time he called Georgie his hero. Georgie doesn’t want to stop being that to him.

He resolves to wait until his parents will be home, but that doesn’t last, and he ends up calling his mom, clutching his phone to his ear so tightly the ring vibrates through his head.

“Is it really important, honey?” his mom asks. “I have a lot of—”

“Mom,” Georgie gets out.

“Are you injured?” she asks. “Did something—”

“I’m fine,” Georgie says. “I’m. Mom.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks, and it all comes spilling out, the things he carefully never mentioned in the calls he made while him and Robbie were fucking. Not the fucking, not exactly, though he’s sure she can fill in the blanks when he says ‘kind of…started up again, but he still hates me’, but the barbs and the check and Russian roulette the way Georgie thought maybe if he could just have a piece of Robbie that would be enough for him, but it wasn’t, and the way he doesn’t even recognize Robbie anymore, how angry he is, not just at Georgie but at everything, and how Georgie thinks that might be his fault, and he can’t handle that. He can’t.

“Sweetie,” his mom says.

“What am I supposed to do here?” Georgie asks. “Please.”

She’s quiet. “I don’t know, Georgie,” she says, because she never lies to him.

“I don’t know either,” Georgie says.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, hon.”

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “Me too.”


	57. Roman; fury

Roman doesn’t need a fucking therapist. The fact that everyone’s acting like he’s out of his fucking mind for being angry, like sad’s the only thing he’s allowed to feel, is bullshit. And it’s not like he isn’t sad. Of course he’s fucking sad. But most of the time, it gets swept under by anger so dark and overwhelming there isn’t room for anything else. And it’s such a fucking relief.

His mother mentions it a few times, and then his father, tentative, with a look on his face like he’s just as skeptical as Roman is, but he wants to humor his wife. Everyone’s doing that right now, if his mother says jump they say how high, and Roman knows that’s because her fucking son just died, but he’s not doing it. Tomáš was his too. 

He was such a fucking jerk sometimes, and always rubbed Roman’s face in how much better than him he was — better at hockey, better at school, better looking. Got all the great genes and left Roman with the rest. Roman couldn’t stand him half the time. He was relieved when he went off to Juniors, because then Tomáš could go be perfect far, far away. He didn’t think he’d feel – he didn’t think he’d feel so _much._

Every day Roman wakes up fine, and then a second, or a minute, or ten minutes later, he remembers his brother’s gone, and he feels like something just slugged him in the stomach. All he wants to do is slug it back. He doesn’t think that’s such a weird thing to want.

Three weeks after the funeral Roman gets a week’s suspension for fighting, and his maminka fucking loses it. His father’s the one who picks him up, and he doesn’t say a word to Roman on the whole drive home, silence starting uncomfortable and then growing unbearable.

“I can’t deal with this too,” she says, when he gets home. Her face is red and wet and he knows she’s been crying. He’s seen a lot of it, lately, but it never fails to make everything worse, harder to handle. “I can’t deal with you too.”

*

Roman goes to a fucking therapist. His mother sits with him in the waiting room, ostensibly for moral support, but he thinks she might just be making sure he actually goes in. She can’t make him say anything, though.

“You’re angry,” the therapist says, after some pleasantries Roman struggles not to return, just cuts right to the fucking chase, right to the bone.

“My mother give you the sob story?” Roman asks. “That it? Her good boy’s dead and the other one, oh, he’s angry, we’re too fucking busy with all our grief, we can’t _deal with him_.”

“You’re angry,” she says again, like that wasn’t fucking obvious.

“Of course I’m fucking angry!” Roman says.

“Why?” she asks.

“Some fucking deadbeat shithead killed my fucking brother,” Roman snaps. “And he’s dead too so we can’t even watch him rot in jail for driving so drunk he couldn’t fucking see straight. How am I not supposed to be angry? The fuck am I supposed to feel?”

“Do you want to be angry?” she asks.

“Who wants to be angry?” Roman snaps.

“Do you want to be angry?” she repeats, infuriatingly.

And he does, he thinks. Because when he’s angry there isn’t room for anything else, and when he’s angry he doesn’t have to deal with this fucking lack in him, this sudden — he’s not the baby, he’s not the kid who kept tripping himself up trying to keep stride with his brother, he’s not a brother anymore at all. What was his brother is dead and buried and he’s never going to see him again, and his maminka’s been crying more often than not, and his táta’s barely there, he doesn’t talk and his expression’s blank and cold like there’s nothing behind it. Roman misses Tomáš, and he misses them too. It’s just – everything’s gone. At least anger’s _something._

“Why?” she asks, even though he hasn’t answered.

Roman shakes his head, throat too tight to speak, and she doesn’t say anything either, just hands him a box of Kleenex and waits him out.


	58. Charlie, Marc, Dan, Ulf; fripperies

Ulf is cool. Like, way cooler than his name would suggest, and way cooler than you’d expect someone to be when they’ve willingly been her papa’s bff for like, twice as long as she’s been alive. Every time he visits he brings stuff, which is obviously automatic points, because stuff, and it’s always a toss-up between hockey stuff for Charlie, which is always great, or something she would never have picked for herself but always seems to look great. This visit it’s a scarf that’s so smooth and light it’s like water under her fingers, and Charlie doesn’t consider herself a scarf person, at least not the kind that isn’t to keep you warm in winter, but it’s so pretty and delicate she can’t help but love it.

“Two days before Charlie gets it caught on something,” she hears her papa say while she’s running her fingers over it. “I hope you didn’t spend too much on it.”

“Hey,” Charlie snaps. “Dad.”

Her dad’s mouth tips up. “Is he wrong?”

“It’s still _rude_ ,” Charlie says. She probably will, no matter how careful she is, but he can’t just _say_ that in front of guests.

“I don’t mind,” Ulf says. “As long as Charlie likes it.”

“I do,” Charlie says, colouring when Ulf grins. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

“Did Charlie just say thank you?” her papa asks in a fake whisper. “Without being told to?”

“ _Dad_ ,” Charlie says.

“Marc, stop teasing Charlie in front of her crush,” her dad says in French.

“Dad!” Charlie yelps, and glares when her dad and papa collapse into laughter like they think they’re _so_ hilarious.


	59. Gabe/Stephen, Dmitry Kurmazov; Quest

Dmitry is drunk. And lost. And he can’t find Oksana, who went to the bathroom two million years ago. She might be lost too. He supposes it’s not surprising that if you can afford to own an entire hockey team, you can afford a house the size of a city block. That leaves a lot of doors for Dmitry to check. Oksana would accuse him of snooping, but he just wants to make sure his fiancee isn’t throwing up somewhere.

 _Iron stomach_ , he can hear her saying disapprovingly, but there has truly been a lot of vodka. His own stomach is starting to rebel, and he has almost a foot and seventy pounds on her, so it’s not an unreasonable concern.

Doors number one through three are locked, door number four Dmitry closes hastily after catching an eyeful of someone’s ass. Door number five someone’s retching behind, but it’s a guy who tells him to fuck off. Sounds like Sorenson. Lightweight.

Door number six looks like an empty den. Dmitry’s tired from his quest. He could sit down. They say when you’re lost you should stay where you are and wait for someone to find you.

He makes it two steps inside before he realizes it’s not empty, actually, hears a murmur of voices in English he can’t make out. Even without understanding, he recognizes Marksy’s laugh, and looks over to see him pressing a kiss to his roommate’s mouth.

That explains quite a lot, Dmitry thinks, then, perhaps not just roommate. Then “Have you seen Oksana?”

Marksy and Stephen jump apart.

“I lost her,” Dmitry says. “I’m lost.”

“Oh bud,” Marksy says. “You want some water?”

“Want Oksana,” Dmitry says. Obviously.

“I’ll go find her,” Stephen says. “And water.”

“Wanna sit down?” Marksy asks, after Stephen leaves, and Dmitry does. Marksy sits beside him.

“So, um,” Marksy says. “What you saw—”

“Didn’t know you were,” Dmitry says, waves a hand.

“I mean, I don’t know what that—” Marksy says, waving back, “—means but like. Yeah?”

“Okay,” Dmitry says.

“Okay?” Marksy says.

Dmitry gives him a thumbs up, and Gabe makes a sound kind of like a laugh and kind of like a sigh. Dmitry pats his shoulder. Or he tries to. It ends up landing more around the elbow.

“Here’s your idiot,” Stephen says, followed by the click of Oksana’s heels and her unimpressed face.

“I was lost,” Dmitry says, to the question he sees there. “Marksy found me.”

“Time to go,” Oksana says in Russian, then in English, “Can you—help carry?”

“No prob,” Marksy says, and he helps Dmitry up, even though he can walk fine all by himself.

Stephen helps too, surprisingly strong. Dmitry shouldn’t be surprised, though. He was a hockey player too.

“I’m sorry your hockey is gone,” Dmitry tells him.

“Kurms—” Marksy says.

“You make Marksy happy though,” Dmitry says. “That’s good.”

He can’t see Stephen’s face through his hair, but he thinks he might be smiling.


	60. David, Jake, Robbie, Kiro; a good day

David wakes up feeling well-rested. He isn’t superstitious by any measure, certainly not in comparison to the majority of hockey players, but it’s a good start to the day, particularly since that’s a state that’s become increasingly rare, especially as they moved into the playoffs. He swaps out his black tea for green, walks to the place around the corner for breakfast, only has to sign two autographs, having thankfully just missed the morning rush. It’s an off day — a true off day, since they’re up three to nothing in the series and Coach canceled practice in favour of letting the team, rested, hopefully win the series at home. 

Jake Skypes him during the Blue Jays game, seems torn between chirping them and Yankees, who he’s not particularly fond of. He forgets to chirp the Jays after awhile, and cheers right along with David when the Jays get a two run hit. That’s the difference maker, in the end, the Jays winning 5-3, and Jake, home already, the Panthers missing contention after their surprising two-round bid last season, ends the call with, “Hope I don’t see you anytime soon.” after his customary “Love you.”

David takes it in the spirit it’s intended.

The Raptors are playing the Celtics, and Robbie invited half the team over to Matthews’ place, apparently with his consent. He’s massively outnumbered, the Canadian players banding together to cheer the Raptors on, united, and while his chirping is the loudest, by far, quantity drowns it out.

“Sorry,” David says, when the Celtics drop the fourth quarter, falling from two points behind to eighteen.

“I hate how sincere you sound,” Robbie says, scowling. “We’ve still got a chance.”

David doesn’t say anything comparing the Raptors to the Capitals, because he’s not superstitious, but it’s never a good idea to consider yourself safe until the final horn sounds.

“Oh shut up,” Robbie says, like David said it anyway.

David had forgotten his phone at home, and when he gets back it’s to a number of texts from Kiro, who’d gone to the Celtics game with Emily. It’s a number of chirps David thinks Robbie would enjoy, followed by _it’s no fun when you don’t say anything_

 _Forgot my phone_ , David replies. _Sorry about the loss._

 _of course you did_ , Kiro says, followed by, _of course you are_

David sends a heart in reply, and then gets ready for bed.


	61. Gerard/Sven/Yvette; literal curtain fic

It’s rare for Gerard to be alone with Yvette. Sven, of course, and Sven and Yvette have their time, despite the fact that Gerard’s spending more time at their house than his apartment, these days, but generally when Gerard and Yvette are there, so is Sven. Gerard isn’t complaining, just taking note.

Little Gerard’s walking adventures have lead to some battered curtains, ones, in fact, that he managed to rip down entirely, with the sort of strength only infants seem to possess, and Yvette’s decided that it’s a sign to rethink the curtains entirely.

Sven, who has slightly questionable taste — appalling is Yvette’s description — has not been invited, stays at home with the baby, hopefully not getting into any further curtain accidents, while Yvette and Gerard shop.

“What do you think?” Yvette asks. “For the spare?”

“You mean my room?” Gerard asks, dryly, because he’s spent more time in it than any other guest combined.

“For the spare,” Yvette says, raising her eyebrows slightly.

“Oh,” Gerard says. “They’re—” he can’t quite finish.

“I like them,” Yvette says.

“Yes,” Gerard says. “Me too.” He wants, desperately, to pull Yvette to him then, plant a kiss on her temple, her bowstring lips, but he can’t. He reaches for Yvette’s hand, squeezes briefly, which isn’t as much as he would like but as much as he dares.

They’re agreed on the guest room — truly a guest room — but torn between three choices for the living room curtains they came to replace.

“Sven to break the tie?” Gerard asks.

“We get whatever he likes least?” Yvette asks.

“Of course,” Gerard says.

 _Those are all commendable choices_ , Sven sends, which is Sven for ‘I don’t care’. Yvette rolls her eyes, and Gerard is right with her, but they’re both smiling the same smile, one Gerard can only describe as besotted.

 


	62. Zach/Elias; give and take

The first time was proving something. Proving Koskinen, handed everything on a silver platter the second he deigned to grace the Avs with his presence, was just like anyone else when he was on his knees, tears in the corners of his eyes while he gagged around Zach’s dick, coughing when Zach pulled back, because he didn’t like the guy, but he wasn’t trying to _choke_ him.

Koskinen pulled him back in, then, fingers as tight on Zach’s hips as Zach’s were in his hair, swallowed and swallowed around him, cupping himself over his jeans, which were so tight it must have hurt, to be as hard as he was when Zach unzipped them, pulled him out, maybe more than Zach’s grip, rough and too dry, for the few strokes it took before Koskinen was coming into his hand, mouth open and tear tracks on his cheeks, clearly overwhelmed, but so, so quiet.

Koskinen may be hot shit on the ice, media darling for all the fuckers who usually can’t bring themselves to say a positive thing about any of them but Connors, but he’ll take anything Zach offers him. And ‘take’ is the word, because he never starts it, at least not with anything Zach could point to, couldn’t say ‘but you didn’t see how he was _looking_ at me’ without it sounding like a tired ass excuse. Some teams let all the vets have their own rooms, some just the goalies, if they need it, to avoid a nuclear meltdown, and the Avs are somewhere in between, let the goalies have singles along with leadership, so Koskinen not only waltzes his way into Saunders’ A, but he gets his single room too.

That’s pretty blatantly bullshit if you’re looking at seniority, which Koskinen obviously doesn’t have, but it’s also pretty convenient when Koskinen’s on his elbows and knees in the middle of the bed, face hidden between his arms as Zach pushes a third finger into him, pale skin marred only by the bruising that they all get. Zach can’t count how many times he’s woken up to a new one, tried to figure out where the fuck he got it. You learn to push past the pain, a lot of the time, at least while the adrenaline’s running high, but the next day the ache remains.

Zach presses the thumb of his free hand into a bruise gone green where his hip meets his ass. Must’ve been a hell of a shot to bruise through his hockey pants, or maybe something he just got knocking into a counter or something. Koskinen makes a noise into his arms, and when Zach eases up, just says ‘Harder’, which Zach does, both his fingers in Koskinen, fucking him more than prepping him at this point, his thumb finding another bruise, still dark purple, on the back of his bicep.

The noise Koskinen makes is cracked and thready then, sounds genuinely pained, but Zach can’t even ease up before he says, “Fuck me.”

“You done this before?” Zach asks.

“What, fuck?” Koskinen asks, muffled into his arms. He sounds too even, so Zach crooks his fingers until he’s gasping and pushing back against him.

“Yeah,” Zach says. “You taken it?” Zach hasn’t. Hasn’t given it either, not with a dude at least, though he had a girlfriend who liked it. It’s not all that different, beyond the prostate, less of a step into homo than the first time a guy came in his mouth, that’s for fucking sure (not that Zach’s ever going to cry ‘no homo’, especially considering he’s about a minute away from sticking his dick in a guy, but it was kind of a lot at the time), but still.

“Yeah,” Koskinen says, and Zach swallows, pulls his fingers out.

“You ready, or—” Zach asks, and Koskinen makes an impatient noise and spreads his legs just a little more, this unapologetically slutty gesture underlined by the way he turns his head, lips bitten red like he’s been trying to hold back sound, a wash of pink over his cheeks and pupils so large Zach wouldn’t be able to even start to guess his eye colour.

Grey, Zach thinks. They’re grey. Silver, if he was poetic, which he’s not, and anyway they’re darker than that, like an overcast day.

Zach fumbles with the condom wrapper for too long, and Koskinen’s looking at him the whole time, neck at an angle that can’t be comfortable, face like a challenge.  

“Need help?” he asks shortly.

“Have some fucking patience,” Zach mutters, and Koskinen laughs a little, turns his face back into his arms. It’s easier after that, with him not fucking — judging, or whatever — and Zach squeezes his ass, exquisite and something he’s actually earned, wonders how pink it’d get under his palm, how hot his skin would get, like a fever.

“Hurry up,” Koskinen says, and that’s the thing. Koskinen takes it, but he’s — he fucking goads, first, asks for it, and whatever he asks for, Zach seems helpless not to give. Sure, it’s a dick in his ass instead of an A and media gushing, but when it comes down to it Zach isn’t any different than anyone else when it comes to him.

Zach pushes in too fast, he knows, because the hot clench of him is almost painfully tight around him, and if Zach’s feeling that way it’s got to be ten times worse for Koskinen. Still, Koskinen pushes back when Zach stalls halfway in him, this sinuous little move that has Zach transfixed at the flex of his shoulders, the way he shoves himself onto Zach until he’s balls deep.

“You want to ride me?” Zach asks.

Koskinen makes a negative noise.

“Then stop trying to control the pace and let me fuck you,” Zach says, and Koskinen goes still except for the slight tremble of his thighs.

“That’s better,” Zach says, and gives it to him exactly as hard as he’s asking for.


	63. Harry, Annie, Erin; pride

“You don’t have to do this,” Erin says.

“What?” Harry says. “You saying I’m—”

“She’s saying you’re not going to lose your queer cred if you don’t march,” Annie says. “Also that you’re shaking a little.”

“I’m not shaking,” Harry denies.

Erin pats his shaking hand. “Seriously, Har,” she says. “If you’re not comfortable—”

“If you can do it, I can do it,” Harry says.

“It’s not a contest, dipshit,” Annie says.

Harry blows out a breath, runs a hand through his hair, scowling when Annie fixes it. “I’ll feel like a puss- chickenshit if I don’t.” He already does, and guilty, knowing that if he gets asked anything by media he’ll be saying he’s there in solidarity with his sister and her girlfriend, even though Annie and Erin both said they were okay with that, that him not wanting to be out wasn’t like, a character failure. Of course, that’s easy for them to say, since they _are_ out.

“Nice save,” Annie says dryly.

“I’m working on it,” Harry says.

“I know, bro,” Annie says, then musses his hair right out of order all over again. “Is it marching that’s the problem? Because if you want you and I can just watch and we’ll meet up with Erin and the girls later.”

Erin doesn’t look upset, or even surprised to hear Annie potentially backing out, which means they clearly discussed this, either before Harry came over or with that secret eye language they have. Harry is frequently both annoyed and impressed that they’ve mastered wordless communication so well Harry ends up falling behind in the conversation if he blinks. Mostly annoyed when they use it to make fun of him, but he usually retaliates by making fun of Annie with his actual words, like a normal person.

Part of Harry’s tempted to take the pity offer. Watching from the sidelines is a whole lot less likely to lead to any photos, let alone coverage, which he’s practically egging on walking with an NWHL team, and he doesn’t like dealing with the media when it’s his _job_ , let alone during the offseason. But it matters to Annie, and it matters to Erin, who was brave enough to be out when she was still on the Riveters roster, and it matters to him, really. 

Selfishly, it’s a way to march without being out, to test the waters: if people aren’t cool with his sister liking girls, they probably will react way worse to him liking guys. It should be a non-event by now, over decade after Riley and Lapointe came out and exploded the entire thing. Harry was a kid then, so he doesn’t know what the league was like, though he’s read up on it. Still, better isn’t necessarily good, and it was one thing to be semi-out in college, or at least not hiding it, and even the AHL, and it’s a whole other thing when you’re on one of the more popular teams in the league.

The guys didn’t give Connelly shit, though. Kid with a crush the size of the fucking moon, and there was some teasing, but it wasn’t so much about his crush being on a dude as how obvious that crush was, the same kind of ribbing they gave Shea for his failed attempts at flirting with a waitress at the North Stars’ usual spot. They don’t give Connelly shit even though it’s pretty damn clear he’s not straight, so Harry doesn’t think they’re going to give him shit for walking in a damn parade.

“I’m in,” Harry says, and glares at Annie and Erin when they high five.  


	64. Hank/Jordan; jitters

When Hank accepted Davies’ invitation, he had no idea how awkward it’d be.

That’s a lie. He had some idea, interspersed with constantly questioning whether it was a friendly dinner between, oh, two people with a history of nice interaction and one instance of abusing the official, or — the other thing. The thing that neither of them had acknowledged, or that Hank had just been imagining. He can’t see himself reaching out to a former player without _some_ agenda, but then, he’s not Davies. He barely even knows Davies. 

He wants to.

“I wanted to apologise,” Davies says early on, which is not a good start. Neither is the fact that Hank isn’t immediately sure whether he’s talking about the one time he implied — more than implied — that Hank wanted to suck his dick, or the time that he knocked a bunch of Hank’s teeth out. Hank’s already forgiven him for both of them, though the latter one was hardly his fault. Injuries happen, obviously, and it wasn’t intentional. Plus, he has bonus points for not causing the injury that lead to Hank’s retirement, not that he’s blaming anyone for that, either.

“What’re you up to now?” Davies asks, soon after, and ‘mostly rehabbing my knee’ sounds bad, along with ‘a lot of daytime TV’. Hank was frugal, the years he was reffing, and he’ll need to get another job, but right now a whole lot of nothing feels good. Definitely better than the knee rehab, which is awful. Davies has a sympathetic wince for the first one — Hank doesn’t recall him having a knee injury, but no doubt he’s done rehab at this point in his career — a blank look for the second. Hank gets it. Daytime TV sucks, though he’s become strangely addicted to the insanity of it.

“Is this a guilt thing?” Hank asks, toward the end of their meal, and that’s when everything gets _really_ awkward.


	65. Robbie/Georgie; massage

“I’m broken,” Robbie complains, flopping face first into Georgie’s bed. He makes a hurt sound immediately after. Georgie felt bad for him right up until the flopping. Their beds are barely better than foam, he should have known better.

“I’m more broken,” Robbie says into Georgie’s pillow, and Georgie feels bad for him again, and also amused. Robbie has that effect.

Georgie tries to sit down in the space left, but there isn’t much of it. Robbie grumbles but moves over when Georgie nudges him, and Georgie gets one whole leg on the bed.

“What hurts—” Georgie starts, and knowing Robbie’s already opening his mouth, “Most. Limited to one body part.”

Robbie’s quiet for a moment, seemingly cataloging his pains.

“Back,” he says, with relish, because he figured what Georgie was offering and he, of course, pulled out the biggest body part. The way he’s been limping, Georgie would bet it’s actually his left leg, though he’d also bet Robbie has zero interest in getting a massage there right now.

“You’re a jerk,” Georgie says admiringly. “Take your shirt off.”

“Ugh,” Robbie says, and makes complaining noises the entire time he’s taking it off. “There’s massage oil in your shower caddy,” he says hopefully.

“I noticed that,” Georgie says dryly. Either Robbie’s been nursing the ache for a few days, or he just wanted a massage but got too awkward to say so. Either one’s possible. He goes to get it, because an unspoken promise is a promise, and Robbie really is knotted up under his hands, letting out noises that alternately remind Georgie of sex and make Georgie feel like he’s torturing him, which is confusing.

“I love you,” Robbie says, sounding half drowsy and half high, when Georgie’s finally deemed him knot free, or at least as much as he can do.

“You too, babe,” Georgie says, pressing a kiss against Robbie’s shoulder, which is when he learns the massage oil is flavored.


	66. Robbie, Matty/Crane; fury! (AU)

“No,” Robbie says. “Nope.”

“Bardi,” Matty says.

“Nope,” Robbie repeats. “You changed in the bathroom for a week when you found out I was gay.”

“He’s apologized for that a thousand times,” Crane says.

“It’s kind of relevant right now!” Robbie yells.

“Sorry,” Matty mumbles, like every other time, which is not Robbie’s point, but he has a feeling any other pushing at that is just going to lead to more apologizing, and he doesn’t want that.

“And you!” Robbie says. “You’re like, girl in every port manwhore.”

“Bardi!” Matty says.

Craney shrugs. “I’m a manwhore,” he says boredly. “That doesn’t disqualify me from a relationship.”

‘A relationship’, Robbie mouths disbelievingly to himself, before he has a sudden thought. “Does Wheels know about this?” Robbie asks.

Matty and Craney exchange glances.

“Yes,” Crane says, overlapping with Matty’s, “Kinda.”

“What’s kinda?” Robbie asks.

Crane puts his hand on Matty’s wrist, and he’s done it before when he wants to shut people up, knowing it’ll work, has even done it to Robbie, but for some reason that’s the moment Robbie starts to think this might be real.

“Yes,” Craney says. “He knows.”

“How long has he known?” Robbie asks.

Matty looks miserable, and Crane still bored as he opens his mouth. “You,” Robbie says, pointing at Matty. “You answer.” Matty sucks at lying.

“A couple months,” Matty mumbles.

“A—” Robbie says, then loses the rest of his sentence to an inarticulate scream.

“I told you not to tell him,” Crane murmurs low, but not low enough that Robbie doesn’t overhear as he paces the room.

“He knows when I’m lying,” Matty says miserably.

“I hate both of you,” Robbie decides.

“Okay,” Crane says, while Matty lets out a miserable, “Bardi.”

“You most of all,” Robbie says, pointing at Matty, the traitor, and only feels a little bad when Matty looks crushed.


	67. Bryce/Jared; gentleman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Jared’s seventeen and Bryce just shy of twenty-one – sixteen’s the age of consent in Canada, but if you’re not comfortable with their age difference, please don’t read!

“If you think this is going to help, you’re nuts,” Jared says.

“I’m just trying to do the gentlemanly thing,” Bryce says.

Jared snorts.

“I’m a gentleman,” Bryce protests. Jared cannot even begin to take down that statement, there are way too many arguments to choose from.

“You met my dad at a police station,” Jared goes with, because it’s the easiest one. 

“You were there too,” Bryce mutters.

“Never claimed _I_ was a gentleman,” Jared says, then, “Stop smirking like that.”

“I’m not smirking,” Bryce lies.

“My parents see you looking at me like that, they’re definitely not going to buy the gentleman bullshit,” Jared says.

“It’s not bullshit,” Bryce argues, and then doesn’t let Jared do the usual, parking up in front of his place instead of down the street, and getting out of his stupid, showy car after him.

“Seriously, this is just going to make things worse,” Jared says. His parents aren’t the grounding kind, and they didn’t tell him he couldn’t see Bryce or anything, but they did a whole ‘we trust your judgment’ speech that implies that they’d only trust it if he did the smart thing and stayed the fuck away from Bryce’s whole walking disaster thing.

Jared does not trust his own judgment, especially not when Bryce grabs his hand as they’re walking up the front steps.

“What are you doing?” Jared hisses.

“Making a good first impression,” Bryce says, then rings the doorbell, which is stupid because Jared has a key and also because of the sign says ‘please knock — doorbell broken’ beside their doorbell, because, you know. The doorbell’s broken.

“Please tell me you know how to read,” Jared says despairingly.

“I know how to read!” Bryce says, then presses the doorbell again. “Hey, did you know your doorbell doesn’t work?”

Jared has a feeling this is going to go very, very badly. 


	68. Gabe, Jake, David; welcome

Gabe’s not going to lie — he really didn’t see Jake and Chapman making it this far. Of course, the Chapman he knew early on — or more accurately, was insulted to his face by, wasn’t the kind of person who was compatible with Jake, just the kind of person Jake always had the bad judgment to be infatuated with.

It’s long past the infatuation stage, though, presumably for both of them, because you don’t do something that long distance without being pretty committed. Gabe and Stephen have a hard time with Gabe’s schedule, enough that offseason is a wonderful oasis of hanging out without school distracting Stephen or a weeklong roadie looming, with the bonus of shamelessly mooching food off their parents, because they can both cook well enough to feed themselves by now, but that isn’t even close to the same as his mom’s or Johan’s skills.

Jake’s training with Chapman down in New York, so Gabe figured he wouldn’t get his annual Jays and Jake weekend, but he gets the week off in July, informs Gabe he’s celebrating Canada Day, and Gabe picks him and Chapman up from the airport two hours before Canada Day officially starts, Chapman standing aside, looking hesitant and super uncomfortable, when Gabe gets out of the car to give Jake a hug.

“You know Ottawa’s like ten times better if you want to celebrate it, right?” Gabe asks. “Everyone gets the hell out of Toronto for the long weekend, it’s like a ghost town.”

Chapman makes a face.

“David’s from Ottawa,” Jake says.

“Not a vacation then, I guess,” Gabe says, even though here he is: home, for vacation. 

“You didn’t have to pick us up,” Chapman says when they get in the backseat, sounding kind of shy.

“Hey, no worries,” Gabe says. “There was a pretty heated game of Scrabble going on at home, I had to get out before I was disowned for being a smart ass.”

“They haven’t done it already?” Jake asks.

“That’s enough out of you, Lourdes,” Gabe says. “I’m happy to drop you off at the nearest bus stop. Not you,” he says to Chapman. “You can stay.”

Chapman smiles a little. “Thank you,” he says, quietly, drowned out by Jake’s, “Hey!”

Jake taps on Gabe’s window while Chapman’s getting their bags out of the trunk, and Gabe rolls it down. “I only accept tips in Canadian currency,” Gabe says.

“Thanks,” Jake says. “For the ride and like. David’s nervous.”

“I got that,” Gabe says.

“He wants you guys to like him,” Jake says.

“Stephen already likes him better than he likes you,” Gabe says. “So tell him he has that going for him.”

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Jake says with a laugh, and then shoves something down the back of his collar, goes to grab one of the bags from David.

Gabe fishes out an American twenty from the back of his shirt and can’t help but laugh. _I said Canadian currency only Jacob_ he texts.

_cmon thats like a billion candian,_ Jake’s sent when Gabe gets home, loitering because the Scrabble game still seems to be on, and Stephen’s pointing furiously at his dad. Gabe can stay in the car for a bit.

_Candian? Seriously?_ Gabe texts, then, _Tell Chapman I like him better than you too._

 _:)_ is all Jake writes in response.


	69. Bryce/Jared; antagonism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Jared’s seventeen and Bryce just shy of twenty-one – sixteen’s the age of consent in Canada, but if you’re not comfortable with their age difference, please don’t read!

Apparently Hockey Canada thinks they’re all little kids, because the first week of Western Prospects Camp ends with a pizza party.

“Are you saying you don’t want your pizza?” Debono asks. “Because I will eat your pizza.”

“I’m eating my pizza,” Jared says, scowling and putting a protective arm around it, because he doesn’t trust Debono not to make a play for it.

Raf’s picking at his own. He shoves one of his slices over to Debono, who crows victoriously, then shrugs when Jared looks at him. “I can practically see the grease,” he says.

“Dude,” Jared says, and then takes a large bite of his own, savouring the hell out of the grease.

Marcus sits down across from him while Jared’s got a mouthful of cheese, and Jared glares but he can’t tell him to go fuck off with his mouth full. He was raised better than that.

He swallows, then says, “You get free pizza for doing jack all? Nice gig.”

“Because it’s not like I make almost a million bucks a year,” Marcus says. “Really desperate for the free pizza.”

“Whoa, big man,” Jared says, and takes another bite of pizza when Raf elbows him.

Marcus has been hovering around Raf and Jared especially all week, giving basically useless advice, trying to look all coach-like whenever Evanson looks his way, and basically sitting like a log the rest of the time. Jared has no idea why he’s even bothering to do this camp, mentioned that aloud on day three, because Marcus was sitting on the bench with his arms crossed and legit pouting like Jared’s little sister when she would get dragged along for his tournaments.

“Maybe they’re trying to fix his image or something,” Raf said.

“Pretty sure his image is unfixable by now,” Jared said, loud enough for Marcus to hear, and smiled when Marcus glared at him. “Maybe just hoping we rub off on him and he can learn how to actually take a face-off.”

If he wants that, hanging around Raf makes sense, if not Jared. Raf’s the one projected to go highest of any of them next year, first round probably, and pretty damn good in the dot and in general. Jared hates playing against him, but he’s a cool guy, quieter than everyone else and way less likely to say stupid shit, so he’s sticking close to him right now, even if that means he gets stuck with extra Marcus.

“So, like, you don’t need this then, right?” Jared asks, reaching over and grabbing one of Marcus’ slices. “Since you’re a millionaire, and we’re just poor schmucks still getting allowances.”

“Jared,” Raf hisses, and Jared ignores him and takes a bite of Marcus’ slice. It’s Canadian, and Jared hates mushrooms, but he suffers through it to make his point, waiting for the legendary Bryce Marcus temper to blow right up at him.

It looks like it’s coming for a moment, but then Marcus unexpectedly smiles, kind of forced looking. “Enjoying my pizza?” he asks.

“It’s delicious,” Jared says, grimacing his way through another bite.

“Anger management classes going good, then?” Jared asks after he swallows, grinning right back at that forced smile, and that time — that time he gets exactly what he was expecting.

“You trying to get thrown out of here?” Raf asks, when Marcus’ chair grinds with the speed he shoves out of it, stomping off.

Jared shrugs and drops Marcus’ gross slice in favour of his own.


	70. Emily, Orange; truce

It’s not that Emily’s not a cat person. She prefers dogs, but the strange idea people have that you have to pick sides, that if you’re a dog person cats are the enemy or something, is ridiculous. Cats are not the enemy, they’re just unfamiliar. She grew up with dogs, she understands dogs — not that it’s hard to understand dogs — cats aren’t something she’s spent a lot of time with. But Kir falls in love with a tiny black ball of fur, who is admittedly as cute as she is a troublemaker, and suddenly Emily’s a cat owner.

Well, it’s not right away. At first it’s some tentative meetings — apparently cats sniff you out the same way dogs will, though they’re a lot less likely to immediately come to you for all the affection they can get. Her and Orange come to an understanding soon enough, though. Orange will occasionally allow Emily to pet her, will always give her a smug cat-look when Kir’s petting _her_ , and will keep scratching to the minimum. It’s a good understanding.

Kir goes to Florida, and it’s terrible. It’s terrible for a lot of reasons — he’s making more and he’s going to get more minutes, and it’s definitely a great thing for his career, Emily would like to note, and also that she’s happy for him, but she chose a school in Pittsburgh because he was there, and she got the job in Pittsburgh because he was there, and he’s not comfortable bringing Orange down until he’s gotten set up, which Emily understands.

In practice, that means Orange is staying with Emily for awhile, and that doesn’t work. Emily does everything she’s supposed to, everything Kir suggests, and internet guides suggest, from the obvious to the desperate ‘what to do with a disturbed cat’ article, but Orange is hell-bent on destroying everything. It’s little things at first, Orange destroying her toys, but then it’s pissing on the bathroom mat and scratching literally everything but her scratching post, and knocking over the matryoshka dolls Kir brought back for her the last time he went back to St. Petersburg, the biggest cracked right in the face, like an ugly metaphor.

The last straw is when Emily comes home from work to find one of the couch cushions gutted, stuffing all over the living room floor, Orange in the middle of it, looking totally unrepentant, and bursts into tears.

“I miss him too, okay!” Emily yells, and she doesn’t know if Orange speaks English or something — seems weird, since Kir speaks to her almost exclusively in Russian — but she stops shredding the furniture after that.


	71. Mike/Liam; massage therapist AU

“What’d you do to yourself this time, Fitzgerald?” Mike asks.

“I resent that,” Liam says, “What did the _Flyers_ do to me?”

“What did the Flyers do to you?” Mike asks.

“Thigh,” Liam says, vaguely gesturing. “Whatever that muscle is.”

“Alright, get your shorts off,” Mike says.

Mike is vicious. Like, all the Oilers talk about him half impressed and half dread-filled, because if you go to Mike, you’re going to suffer, but you’re going to feel _great_ after. 

Liam doesn’t think it’s quite the same thing for him. Like, he suffers, and then he feels great, yep, but some wires in his head got crossed or something, and whenever Mike puts his hands on him Liam’s practically anticipating the pain, which isn’t even like pain, not like say, the check that he’s limping off, muscles tight, but something on the edge of awful and really, really good, and the way he feels loose after is a whole trip. Basically he loves it, but he tries not to go when he isn’t actually hurting, mostly because the one time he did Mike gave him a very sceptical look after, like Liam’s back muscles ratted him out, and Liam felt like a jerk.

Today though, he does hurt, and hurts even more when Mike gets his hands on him, digging in to the muscle, so tight Liam kind of wants to cry, until it gives under his cruel, beautiful hands.

Liam is really hard right now. It’s a problem.

“I have to do Rogers next,” Mike says, and the Rogers mention is almost enough to make Liam’s erection go away, but not quite. “Get up.”

“I can’t,” Liam says. “I don’t have any bones left. You took them.” Except for his stupid boner, which is not technically a bone but will be very obvious if he sits up.

“C’mon, Fitzgerald, up,” Mike says, and then he like, bodily lifts Liam with no seeming effort, which is possibly the hottest thing in the world.

“Um,” Liam says, hunching over himself, but Mike’s clearly seen the way he’s straining his underwear.

“It’s a natural reaction,” Mike says, overlapping with Liam’s defensive, “I’m sorry, it’s not my fault you’re hot.”

He doesn’t expect that to be the first time he ever hears Mike laugh.


	72. Vinny/Anton; let it snow

“I hate this country,” Anton says. “For the record.”

Thomas frowns, and Anton sighs loudly. “I hate your eternal winter. Not your country.”

“It was twenty less than a week ago,” Thomas points out. It was nice. They went to the park with smoothies and sat on a blanket in the sun.

“Then why is it snowing,” Anton hisses.

“Proper weather for the playoffs?” Depardieu says. “And where’s your ‘I’m a tough Russian, Canadian winters are nothing’ now?”

“It’s May!” Anton says. “And I’m American.”

“Oh, he’s American again,” Denisovich mutters, and when Thomas tries and fails to smother a laugh Anton scowls at his weak attempt.

“I’m cold,” Anton grits out, and Depardieu throws his arms around him, rubbing his arms briskly while Anton’s scowl gets deeper and deeper.

“Am I helping, Tony?” Deps asks, his grin growing in proportion to Anton’s scowl.

“No,” Anton bites out.

“Do you need Vinny to cuddle you?” Deps asks.

“No,” Anton says again, and eyes Thomas balefully when he holds his arms out, but the moment Denisovich makes like he’s going to step into Thomas’ arms, he’s right there, surprisingly speedy.

Thomas tightens his arms, putting his chin on Anton’s shoulder, and Anton leans back into him.

“This bus is never coming,” Anton says, then, “Your nose is cold!”

“Warm it up,” Thomas says, keeping his nose tucked against the warmth of Anton’s neck.

“This is cozy,” Serge says, when he walks over. “Bus is going to be at least ten more minutes if you want to head inside, get out of the snow.”  

“Why?” Anton scoffs. “It’s barely below freezing.”

“Oh, he’s decided he’s Russian again,” Deps says to Denisovich in an undertone, and Anton bristles when they both start laughing at him, only settling when Thomas tucks his cheek against his neck.


	73. Matty, Wheels, Robbie; breakfast in bed

Elliott doesn’t usually wake up with someone in bed next to him. He especially doesn’t usually wake up with that someone being his roommate sitting down with the tray they usually use when eating dinner in front of the TV, loaded up with coffee and waffles and bacon, a single very yellow flower.

“What?” Elliott asks.

“For your hat-trick and you not being broken,” Dougie says. “I made the food. Lauren brought flowers and made me put one on the plate. Rest are on the dining room table. Apparently we have a vase?”

Elliott sits up. “Dude,” he says.

Dougie puts the tray in his lap, knocks his head to the side. “I gotta feed Lauren before she goes to work, but congrats.”

The waffles are delicious, the bacon’s perfect, and Dougie even included a little bowl of maple syrup, the real kind.

“Lombardi incoming,” Lauren yells right when Elliott’s finishing his plate, and he hastily puts it aside just before Bardi barrels into his room and jumps on his bed.

“You didn’t come for drinks after the game,” Bardi says disapprovingly. “You got a hat-trick, and I couldn’t buy you shots.”

Elliott holds up his arm helpfully. His wrist’s just bruised, not sprained, or, God forbid, broken, but getting it checked out put a bit of a dent in any post-game plans.

“I don’t even get to sign a cast,” Bardi complains.

“So you want my arm to be broken?” Elliott asks.

“I didn’t say that,” Bardi argues, even though he totally did. He grabs the remote off Elliott’s bedside table, turns on his TV. “Since we’re taking a recovery day…”

“We’re?” Elliott asks.

“I was worried,” Bardi says. “Stress is a killer.”

Elliott snorts.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Matty,” Bardi says, quieter. “You’re okay, right?”

“Totally fine,” Elliott says.

“And that hatty was badass,” Bardi says. “So. I guess you get to pick what we’re watching.”

“Because I got a hat-trick, not because we’re in my room,” Elliott says.

“Exactly,” Bardi says, but he hands him the remote, so Elliott figures it’s best not to argue.


	74. David/Jake; daemon!au (cont!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the original daemon ‘verse ficlet is [here](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/post/139927630046/sotw-davidjake-daemons))

David and Jake have been officially together — back together? — officially _them_ for just over two months when Gecko touches Jake for the first time, Jake waking up in the middle of the night, confused by the feeling of something crawling up his body over the covers.

Gecko’s comfortable with Sadie, sleeps curled up with her more often than not, sometimes using her ear as a blanket, which is the cutest thing Jake has ever seen in his entire life. He’s never touched Jake before, which Jake doesn’t take personally, except tonight seems to be the exception, Jake squinting down to see Gecko perched over his chest.

“Hey,” Jake says. “Gecko, buddy.”

Gecko continues to make his way up Jake’s chest, and Jake stays very, very still, afraid if he moves even a muscle he’ll scare him off. He stops his trek when he reaches Jake’s neck, cool body curling up where Jake’s neck meets his shoulder.

“He loves you a lot,” Gecko tells him, and Jake bites his lip, hard, because tearing up could also scare Gecko off.

“I love him a lot,” Jake whispers, careful not to wake David, who he imagines would be mortified by this.

“I know,” Gecko says. “My name’s Aurelio.”

“I’m Jake,” Jake says.

“I know,” Gecko — Aurelio says. He sounds a little amused, a little shy. A lot like David.

“David said you didn’t like your name,” Jake says.

“It’s fine,” Aurelio says. “It made him sad. I don’t like making him sad.”

“Me either,” Jake says.

“Aurelio?” Sadie asks sleepily, which means he told Sadie first. Jake can’t be mad at her not telling him. It’s a pretty big display of trust.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Aurelio says. David shifts, still sleeping, but shallowly, and Aurelio’s quieter when he says. “Take care of him.”

“I promise,” Jake says, and when Aurelio makes his way back to Sadie, he pulls David into him, presses a kiss to his sleep warm neck.


	75. Thomas/Anton, Fourniers;  adjustment

Thomas is a lot more unsure about teenagers than he is kids. Kids are easy. He gets kids.

“Because you are a kid,” Anton says, when he says as much, which is pretty rich, because Tonya jokes that Anton’s never left his teenage years. Not in front of Anton, though, since that’d probably take Hartford right off their summer plans. That one’s between Thomas and Tonya.

It’s just — Thomas remembers when the Fournier girls were tiny, figuring out how the world worked. When they were little, deciding how they wanted it to work, getting upset when it didn’t work that way. Even though the change was more dramatic, the difference between toddlers and school age kids huge, Thomas was right there. He saw them through it, so it was a matter of ‘how did you grow two inches in a week’ and not ‘everything important in your life I know secondhand’.

But Mich and Chloe and the kiddos — teenos? preteenos? Thomas doesn’t know what the right term is  — are returning to Montreal for good, now that Fourns has officially retired, and Thomas doesn’t know if they’ll still like him. When they were small, Thomas could play with them, make up stories when they asked, always listen when they wanted to talk about their day, and he was their favourite. He’s seen the kiddos…former kiddos… minimum a few times a year since they moved to Chicago, then Dallas, then Colorado, but he doesn’t know them the way he did when he was coming over every week for dinner, helping the girls with their math homework, watching Disney with Vanessa’s head on his lap, Olivia’s on his shoulder.

“They love you,” Anton says.

“You said they’d forget me,” Thomas says. “When Fourns was traded.”

“That sounds like an asshole thing to say,” Anton says, then, “And obviously I was wrong, because they love you.”

“I don’t know,” Thomas says, and spends way too much time worrying about whether Vanessa and Olivia will have forgotten his existence before the ‘welcome back!’ homewarming…re-warming? at the Fourniers’.

He gets two very good hugs from the outset, which puts him in a pretty good mood, but it’s when him and the girls have ducked out of the party to watch a movie that he thinks Anton was right. It’s not Disney, sadly, some silly PG-13 comedy they’re not technically old enough for and but also aren’t catching the jokes that make it PG-13, but he’s been invited and he is not turning that invite down for anything.

_You were right,_ Thomas texts Anton halfway through the movie, Vanessa’s hair tickling his chin and Olivia leaning into his side.

_Good,_ Anton texts back. _Where the fuck are you total strangers are asking me about my contract._

Thomas mutes his phone and turns back to the movie, squeezing Olivia’s shoulder when she gives him a questioning look.


	76. Mike/Liam/Roman; between a rock and a hard place

“First off,” Mike says, like, the second they get to the bedroom. Roman waits expectantly, but Liam doesn’t bother, figures it’s a better use of time to strip while Mike does his intimidation thing or whatever.

“This is for Liam,” Mike says. “I don’t really want to fuck you, just for you to fuck him.”

“Same, dude,” Roman says. “Would feel kind of like a narcissist if I did.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “We don’t look that alike,” he says.

“It’s like doing twins,” Liam stage-whispers gleefully, and gets a pinch to his bare hip from Mike in response.

“How are you naked right now?” Roman asks. “When did you get naked?”

“How are you not?” Liam says. “Come on, I don’t have all day to get nailed.”

“Got something else in your schedule?” Mike asks dryly, overlapping with Roman’s, “You totally do.”

“Like twins!” Liam says, and gets two scowls in return. Mike’s is much scowlier. He’s had more practice. “Hurry up.”

It’s kind of hilarious, the mostly silent conversation Mike and Roman get going to avoid like, accidentally touching one another, like that whole ‘no homo bro’ shit you see in pornos when it’s two guys doing a girl, the kind Liam watched when he was just starting to figure out maybe he wanted to be the girl in that sandwich, not fuck her. Not like, being a girl though. Just getting it from both sides.

_Living the dream,_ Liam thinks.

The thing about Mike and Roman is that they’re _big_. Mike’s lost some definition since retiring, put on some weight, and Liam knows it bothers him a little, but Mike’s stupid hot no matter what and also now he’s more comfy to cuddle. Roman’s somehow even bigger than Mike, for all that Mike’s got a few inches on him, built like a fucking tank, thick everywhere, from his neck to his biceps to his barrel chest, down to a cock that even half hard promises to be the same.

Liam has never felt smaller, and while that feeling is annoying in every other context, it’s crazy hot in this one. He’s also never felt more torn, because he has no idea whether he wants to have Roman’s cock in his mouth or his ass more right now.

He improvises. “I’m going to suck you off then you’re going to fuck me,” Liam decides. “Mike, you finger me.”

“He’s bossy,” Roman says.

“You have no idea,” Mike mutters.

“I’m decisive,” Liam corrects. “And you like me bossy,” he adds to Mike, who rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it, because that’d be a total lie.

Mike and Roman do that silent conversation with their eyes again. “I don’t mean to interrupt or anything,” Liam says. “But I can’t prep myself. I mean, I can, but it seems more efficient and more fun if you—”

“How do you talk even more in bed than out of it?” Roman asks disbelievingly.

“Mike finds shoving his cock in my mouth to be a pretty effective way to shut me up,” Liam says. “That was a hint by the way.”

Roman laughs. “Was it?” he asks.

“Uh huh,” Liam says.

“Well,” Roman says. “If it means you’ll be quiet…”

Liam would be offended if he hadn’t specifically suggested it, and also if Roman’s voice hadn’t gotten this low, scratchy edge to it Liam’s never heard before but wants to hear _all the time_ now.

“C’mere,” Roman says, and Liam hesitates for a moment, glancing back at Mike. He’s watching Liam, intense but not like, pissed or upset looking, and when he catches Liam looking at him he raises an eyebrow.

Liam raises both of them back, punctuates it with a smirk, and then devotes himself to getting that thick, gorgeous cock down his throat.


	77. Gabe/Stephen, Jake/David; misunderstanding

Gabe finds out that Jake and David are officially on again three days before Jake’s due to hit up Toronto for a weekend to catch the Jays playing the Tigers.

Jake calls him while he’s dozing in the sun after a run, which has Gabe thinking he’s about to cancel, since Jake calls are either great news or terrible news, but instead it’s Jake going, “Is it okay if David comes up too?”

“Dude, you’re staying at a hotel, you can bring whoever,” Gabe says. “You guys together again?”

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Since February.”

“Good work on keeping a lid on it this time,” Gabe says, genuinely impressed. “David know you’re telling me this?”

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Like, it’s kind of relevant if we’re visiting, so.”

“You know I’ve got to tell Stephen,” Gabe says.

“One sec,” Jake says, then, after a minute, “That’s fine.”

“He there?” Gabe asks.

“Yeah,” Jake says.

“Tell him to bring Jays gear, sitting beside you is embarrassing,” Gabe says.

“You’re embarrassing,” Jake retorts lamely.

“Good one, Jacob,” Gabe says. “Good one.”

Stephen’s reading a biography on Konstantinovich when Gabe comes in from the backyard. Or, he was reading it, now he’s fake reading it. “That Lourdes?” he asks, without looking up. “He not coming or something?”

“Bringing someone up with him, checking if that’s okay,” Gabe says.

“Oh?” Stephen says, still pretending he’s paying attention to his book, which he totally isn’t.

“Boyfriend,” Gabe says, and Stephen looks up.

“Boyfriend,” Stephen repeats, like that’s something shocking.

“You know Jake’s—” Gabe cuts himself off when Stephen gets squintier and squintier. It’s probably a bad idea to remind Stephen of the exact reason he has his Jake aversion right before he comes into town. “Anyway, you know him. Kinda.”

“Hockey player?” Stephen asks.

“David Chapman,” Gabe says.

Stephen looks genuinely surprised then, instead of fake surprised. “How long have they been together?” Stephen asks.

“Like off and on since the summer after their rookie year I think,” Gabe says. “Mostly off though. Maybe a couple years all told?”

Stephen’s eyes narrow. “How long did you know about this?”

Gabe scratches his neck.

“Is it the same answer?” Stephen asks, sort of dangerously.

“Maybe,” Gabe says.

“And you didn’t tell me?” Stephen asks.

“Because we talk about Jake a lot?” Gabe asks.

“Gabe,” Stephen says.

“Look, it was private,” Gabe says. “Jake shouldn’t have even told me, since Chapman didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Because I’m a snitch,” Stephen says.

“Come on,” Gabe says. “Don’t be like that.”

Stephen’s face says he is going to be e _xactly_ like that.

“I mean, I didn’t tell him about us either,” Gabe says. “Like, until I knew you were cool with that.”

“Why is that?” Stephen asks.

“Why did I make sure you were cool with it?” Gabe asks.

“Why didn’t you want to tell Lourdes?” Stephen asks. “Hedging your bets?”

“Wow,” Gabe says. “You going to stand by the one?”

Stephen tips his chin up.

“You’re being an asshole,” Gabe says. “I hooked up with Jake a few times almost ten years ago, why is this still a thing with you?”

Stephen blinks. “A few times,” he repeats.

“Handful?” Gabe asks. “I don’t know, is there another synonym for ‘a few’? More than once, less than a lot?”

“You weren’t a couple?” Stephen asks.

Gabe blinks right back at him. “Wait, you thought we were?”

“You were always together,” Stephen says.

“Because we were teammates,” Gabe says. “And roomies.”

“You visited him in Detroit!” Stephen says.

“So?” Gabe says.

“You visited him in Detroit,” Stephen says. “For like, a _week_.”

“Did you think that was some meeting the parents thing or something?” Gabe asks.

“Yes!” Stephen says.

“Huh,” Gabe says. Maybe they should have actually talked about this at some point instead of doing that thing they did before they got together, which was pretend that neither of them had any love life to speak of because it brought up something uncomfortable every time it was alluded to. “I mean, we were pretty much just buds,” Gabe says. “And he usually had a girlfriend. It wasn’t really a thing.”

Stephen looks like he’s just swallowed something sour.

“Did you just realise you’ve been a dick to Jake for no reason?” Gabe asks.

“Fuck off,” Stephen says. “I still don’t like him.”

“Why?” Gabe asks, stepping forward and stealing Stephen’s book when he frowns at him, setting it aside so he can perch on Stephen’s thigh.

“You’re heavy and sweaty,” Stephen complains, but just shifts Gabe more comfortably across his lap. “He’s too — too.”

“He’s too too,” Gabe repeats, though he kind of gets it. Jake’s always on, always a lot, a lot of a friendly, a lot of enthusiastic, a lot of feelings. Sometimes it was exhausting, sharing a room with him, the same way it’s sometimes exhausting to share one with Dmitry, and Gabe’s always been a lot more tolerant of that sort of thing than Stephen, who complained Dmitry sucked his energy out like a vampire the last time he came to dinner, though Gabe thinks that might have been more the boundless energy of his kids, who definitely inherited it from him and not Oksana.

 _Stephen’s pissed he just found out about you and Chapman so expect fun times when you come_ , Gabe texts Jake once he’s comfortable on Stephen’s lap and Stephen’s returned to his book, then edits it to remove the ‘you and’ because the Canucks drilled it into their heads that you have to assume anything can be made public after a hook up of Ellis’ leaked a screenshot of some…creative requests, along with a dick pic the entire team can sadly confirm is legit thanks to the birthmark on his hip. Better safe than sorry.

He’s glad he gave Jake a warning, even though Jake’s only response was _call him david!_ , because when they meet up before the game on Saturday, Stephen takes one look at Chapman, thankfully in a Jays hat so Jake’s officially outnumbered, and says, “You could do better.”

Chapman looks very, very confused for a moment, until Jake starts laughing, and then he gives Stephen a hesitant smile.


	78. Jake/David, Gabe/Stephen; crazy in love

The Jays beat the Tigers, which is typical, and worse when you’re surrounded by Jays fans before during and after. It being typical means Jake’s pretty used to it though, so he takes Gabe up his suggestion to grab drinks in some bar in Gabe and Stephen’s old neighborhood, a place he says won’t give a shit who they are, even if they recognize them. David looks doubtful, but agrees, and Jake’s feeling a little doubtful himself when the bartender greets Gabe and Stephen by name.

“Just because we’re regulars,” Gabe says when they’re sitting down, like he’s psychic. He squeezes Jake’s arm, and Jake definitely doesn’t imagine Stephen’s glare. It’s pretty good though, definitely the nicest Stephen’s been to him, or at least restrained, maybe because David’s there, right up until Gabe goes to the bathroom and David goes outside to answer a call from Volkie.

“I still don’t like you,” Stephen says.

“I figured?” Jake says. Telling David he was too good for Jake was a sign, not that Jake disagrees.

“You weren’t together?” Stephen asks.

“Huh?” Jake asks. “You mean me and Gabe?”

“Yeah,” Stephen says.

“Dude,” Jake says. “Gabe was like, already crazy in love with you in Juniors, no way anything serious could have come out of that.”

“Are you saying if he hadn’t been you would have?” Stephen asks.

Jake shrugs. “No way to know, but like, he was, so.”

Stephen ducks his head the exact same way David does when he wants to hide a smile, hair falling like a curtain to hide his face. “I don’t think David’s too good for you,” he says quietly.

“I do,” Jake says, and feels pretty victorious when Stephen laughs.

Gabe returns right about then, says, “What are you guys talking about?” kind of worried sounding.

“Apparently you were crazy in love with me in Juniors,” Stephen says.

“So basically the same as now,” Gabe says, and Stephen makes gagging sounds but Jake thinks it’s pretty adorable.


	79. Thomas/Anton; Hogwarts AU

Thomas doesn’t think he’s imagining the fact that quidditch games have gotten a lot more intense since Chapman joined the team. Hufflepuff isn’t bad at quidditch, exactly — they’ve never been last at the end of the year in Thomas’ time with the team, even if they haven’t won the Quidditch Cup either, but they definitely don’t take it as seriously as the Gryffindors and Slytherins often do, and it doesn’t get ugly the way those Gryffindor-Slytherin games have a tendency to.

This game against Gryffindor is a little different. Chapman’s going to break his neck in his attempt to catch the snitch, pulling off feints that Thomas has seen professional quidditch players get injured doing, and the Gryffindors have clearly caught onto Chapman’s determination, so their chasers are throwing everything they have at Thomas. It’s all Brouwer and Davies can do to keep them from completely overwhelming him, knocking bludger after bludger in their direction, though it isn’t enough, and if Chapman doesn’t catch the snitch soon, it’s going to be irrelevant when he does, because Gryffindor is going to win anyway.

Thomas hasn’t been paying much attention to the bludgers, far too busy trying — and failing — to keep the quaffle out of the goal hoops, so the only warning he gets is an aborted cry from Davies before he’s hit full on in the chest and knocked off his broom. Thankfully one of the professors slows his fall before he hits the pitch, but it still knocks the breath out of him. Maybe that was the bludger. He doesn’t know.

Someone drops down to their knees beside him, and Thomas makes out the red jersey of a Gryffindor. “Trying to finish me off?” he croaks out.

“I wasn’t aiming for you, I’m so sorry,” the Gryffindor says, and Thomas squints through the sun, recognises a Gryffindor in his year, the one who never says anything, which is pretty un-Gryffindor of him. Sandro says it’s a curse, but Thomas has learned by now not to believe anything Sandro says.

“Move aside Mr. Petrov,” Madame Pomfrey says, clucking at whatever diagnostic she does on Thomas. “Broken ribs,” she declares. “What were you thinking?”

“I was watching the quaffle,” Thomas says, overlapping with Petrov’s, “I wasn’t aiming for him.”, which makes Thomas think maybe the question wasn’t meant for him.

“Can I come with you?” Petrov asks, and when Madame Pomfrey clucks again, “Please.”

“That is up to Mr. Vincent,” she says doubtfully.

“Sure,” Thomas says, then, “This is the most I’ve ever heard you say.”

Petrov frowns down at him as Madame Pomfrey immobilizes him and starts to float him off the pitch. It’s a weird feeling, like flying but not nearly as fun.

“You should talk more,” Thomas tells him. “You have a nice voice.”

“Did you hit your head when you fell?” Petrov asks, then, “Madame Pomfrey, I think he hit his head.”

“I don’t think you know Mr. Vincent very well,” she says dryly.


	80. David/Jake, Kiro; Hogwarts AU

Every year since David has come to Hogwarts, the Gryffindors have won the Quidditch Cup. Slytherin has come close, but inevitably Gryffindor pulls out some last moment ‘heroics’ so school leadership doesn’t have to give Slytherins a single thing.

“Are you saying there is conspiracy?” Kiro asks. David doesn’t even have to look up from his Charms work to know he’s grinning. “I am Slytherin and even I think that’s stupid.”

“Anti-Slytherin bias is well documented,” David says, frowning down at his scroll.

“Lapointe gave you pamphlet, then,” Kiro says.

Lapointe’s probably given everyone a pamphlet, but David was well-versed on that bias long before he started at Hogwarts. His parents warning him about it, expecting him to be sorted there like most of his family before. Those warnings tended to accompany descriptions of Hufflepuffs as ‘bumbling, credulous imbeciles’, but just because they were wrong about that doesn’t mean they were wrong about Slytherins.

It isn’t just the anti-Slytherin bias that bothers him, it’s the way it seems the Hogwarts staff bends over backwards to frame Gryffindors as the golden house, smiling indulgently when they do something that would earn any other house lost points, liberally handing them points for knowing something basic that most Ravenclaws could have answered as a first year. It’s offensive.

“Stop glaring at Lourdes,” Kiro whispers.

“I’m not glaring at Lourdes,” David says, and looks back down at his essay. He still needs three inches, and he’s at a loss.

“What is the problem?” Kiro says, putting his chin on David’s shoulder to read over the essay. David resists the urge to put a hand over it. He isn’t good at Charms, and Kiro’s one of the best in their year. It’s embarrassing, him seeing David’s shoddy work.

“I help, you help me with my Potions?” Kiro asks, chin digging into David’s shoulder as he speaks.

“Okay,” David says, relieved it’s a trade. With the help of Kiro and Emily, his grades have improved to almost straight Os this year, and while he doesn’t have anything to offer Emily, who’s second in their year, Kiro got an A on his last Potions essay.

Kiro takes his chin off David’s shoulder and drags David’s scroll over to read over it more carefully, and David struggles not to watch him reading it, to worry what his expression means. He’s diverted from that by a burst of laughter from the table-full of Gryffindors halfway across the room, David’s Potions partner Lombardi, who David actually likes well enough when he’s not with Lourdes practically falling out of his chair with laughter, Lourdes bright red.

David hopes, viciously, that Lombardi’s laughing at Lourdes, but as soon as he thinks it, Lourdes laughs too. It’s disruptive, the noise — it doesn’t seem to bother Kiro, who’s still frowning down at David’s essay, but there’s a table full of Ravenclaw second years glaring. David has no idea how on earth they haven’t been asked to leave the library, or even told to quiet down.

“Do you mind?” David snaps loudly. “Some people are trying to study.”

“Sorry, David,” Lourdes says, mockingly over familiar, and of course, of course that’s when Madame Pince comes over with a warning that if David raises his voice again he’ll be asked to leave. David bites his tongue from pointing out that she didn’t seem interested in enforcing the rules when it was Gryffindors, because he needs to finish this essay tonight, and him and Kiro don’t share a common room, but he’s tempted.

They’ve just wrapped up work on David’s essay, which will need to be completely rewritten tonight to include Kiro’s suggested revisions, but will hopefully net David at least an E, when a shadow falls over the table. David keeps his head down, waiting for the shadow to go away, until Kiro says, “Lourdes,” sounding like he wants to laugh.

“Volkov,” Lourdes says. “David.”

“It’s Chapman,” David snaps.

“Chapman,” Lourdes corrects himself. “Sorry again. We didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You just don’t bother thinking about anything but yourselves, I got it,” David snaps, and when Lourdes doesn’t move, blinking down at him, “Do you mind? Some people actually have to work, rather than get everything handed to them on a silver platter.”

“I—sorry,” Lourdes mumbles, and walks away.

When David looks over, Kiro’s staring at him, mouth quirked a little. “What?” David asks.

“Nothing,” Kiro says, putting his hands up. “Potions now?”

“Of course,” David says. “What are you having problems with?” he asks, and is unsurprised when Kiro answers with an emphatic, “Everything.”


	81. Marc/Dan; Hogwarts AU

Playing Gryffindor is horrible. It’s not even that they’re good, though they are, or that Hufflepuff usually loses, though they do, it’s that Chapman turns into a complete monster for at least a month leading up to it, demanding extra practices, haranguing anyone he thinks might be slacking off, stalking through the halls like he’s a Slytherin on the warpath.

“I resent that,” Marc says.

“I didn’t say I was talking about you,” Dan says, running his fingers through Marc’s hair. Marc gives him a sceptical look from where his head’s pillowed in Dan’s lap, which is maybe fair, because Slytherins are generally more about sauntering. Marc maybe not so much.

“I hate to stereotype by house,” Marc says, which is a massive understatement, judging by his latest run of animated pamphlets (”Not animated, spelled,” Marc argued, but it’s not like Dan can help using the words he grew up with as a muggleborn, and it looks like cartoons to him), “But why do all of you let him bully you?” Like Hufflepuffs, Dan guesses is the implication. “He isn’t even the captain.”

Dan shrugs. “Seems like too much work to fight it.” Brouwer did, before he graduated, shut it down every time, but speaking for himself, extra practices and hard work aren’t things Dan’s actually against. This year, though, it’s a little different, considering Dan has NEWTS to study for, a semi-clandestine inter-house relationship to hide (he thought Marc would want to make a pamphlet or something, but instead he shrugged and said ‘easier to abuse our Prefect privileges if they don’t separate us’, which was very Slytherin of him — Dan did not say that out loud because he’s not stupid — and also lead to the best sex of Dan’s life in the Prefect bathroom while they should have been patrolling).

Dan’s been hoping someone would tell Chapman that Lourdes isn’t ‘intent on embarrassing us, once again, so he can smugly rub his victory in my face’ and more, like, hopelessly pining, in the hopes that he’d actually have a chance to study, but everyone looked at him like he was insane when he suggested it. Andy straight up gulped and laughed nervously when Dan suggested it, but if everyone’s getting bullied a little by Chapman right now, Andy’s getting bullied extra, considering the fact he’s dating a member of the Gryffindor team. The last time Dan checked in, Chapman had accused him of leaking Hufflepuff secrets ‘to the enemy’.

Sometimes, Dan wishes he had ignored that letter, gone on to a normal, innocent Muggle life, probably obliviated so he didn’t know there was anything else, was playing hockey in high school and stressing over English or math instead of Transfiguration and Potions, which is basically all the awful of chemistry plus terrible, terrible smells. It’s only for short moments, though, and then he’ll do a spell, or kick off a broom and fucking _fly_ , or the staircase will move to shorten his path when he’s running late to class, and he knows he wouldn’t trade it for anything, this knowledge that magic isn’t only real but it’s under his _skin_ , living inside him. He could really do with drinking juice made of fruits instead of pumpkins, though. He was officially sick of pumpkin juice day two of his time at Hogwarts.

And if he was a Muggle, he’d have never met Marc, Marc who is so passionate about things that are entirely over Dan’s head, all the intricacies of wizarding relations that Dan hasn’t been able to pick up in seven years, probably never could, who waves his hands when he’s speaking like he waves his wand, somehow both flippant and precise, who cares so much about everything, and for some reason Dan’s one of those things, lucky enough to be something Pierre Marc Lapointe cares about, and trusted enough that he’s been entrusted with the knowledge of his first name, which Marc has assured him no one else but Larsson is aware of.

Dan has quidditch practice just after dawn tomorrow morning, and an entire day of time in the library alternately studying for an upcoming History of Magic test and writing a Transfiguration essay. He’s alternately dreading and looking forward to the game against Gryffindor on Sunday, has no idea how he’s even going to be to have time to feed himself this weekend, let alone sleep, but in this moment, the lull before curfew, in an abandoned classroom, Marc’s head in his lap, Dan can’t imagine being anywhere else.


	82. David, Kiro, Vladislav; card shark

The fourth time David loses a round of shutka because the rules have shifted, he starts to think the game isn’t actually a Russian classic. Not because he’s losing, because he’s not particularly good at card games, but because every time he thinks he has a handle on it, Kiro or Vladislav will state a rule David swears they’ve never mentioned before, and David gets confused again. Round five, Kiro and Vladislav start arguing about the rules, and David thinks maybe it’s just complicated, but by round six, David is outright suspicious, especially because Kiro keeps trying to hide snickers behind his cards.

“Is this a real game?” David asks.

“Of course it is,” Kiro says, but David knows better to believe him.

“Yes,” Vladislav says. “Too hard for you?”

“No,” David scowls. “Deal again.”

*

David knows it’s silly to call Oleg in Russia just to confirm a hunch, but that night he can’t find anything online, his phonetic reproduction of the word obviously not close enough, and Cyrillic far beyond him. He shouldn’t call Oleg. He’s not going to call Oleg.

“What does shutka mean?” David asks Oleg when he picks up. It’s seven a.m. in Moscow, and David would feel guilty about calling anyone else, but he knows Oleg will be up, probably has been for at least an hour.

“Say again?” Oleg says, and David does, trying to pronounce it as closely to the way Kiro and Vladislav have as possible.

“Joke,” Oleg says. “Why?”

*

“I thought you were better than this,” David says to Vladislav the next morning in training.

“Usually Volkov is the whiner,” Vladislav says, then, over Kiro’s “Hey!”, “Complaining will not get you out of training.”

“Shutka means joke!” David says, and glares when Vladislav cracks a smile and Kiro pulls the hem of his shirt over his mouth to unsuccessfully hide his laughter.


	83. Mike/Liam; secret romantic

Mike doesn’t have a dishwasher. Like, Liam gets it, hundred year old house or whatever, no dishwasher’s coming with it, but the kitchen’s been redone at least in the last ten years, even to Liam’s unpracticed eye, so it’s not like he’s still forced to, like, cook his food in a fireplace or whatever.

“They had stoves a hundred years ago,” Mike says.

“Like the wood kind, whatever, you know what I meant,” Liam says.

“They had electric stoves too, Liam,” Mike says.

“Did they?” Liam asks. “Did they?”

Mike sighs loudly at him, and Liam looks it up later to find out that they did. Damnit.

The point is, if Mike had a dishwasher, Liam wouldn’t have to do dishes.

“I’m just asking you to dry,” Mike says, which is true now, maybe, but only because when Liam was on washing duty Mike ended up re-washing every dish because Liam didn’t wash them ‘properly’. Now he’s on drying duty, and Mike only re-washes like a third of the dishes Liam dries.

“Why even make me do this if you’re going to redo it?” Liam complains.

“Because you should know how to do it,” Mike says.

“I should know how to wipe a dish with a towel,” Liam says, then, “Wait.”

“What?” Mike asks, kind of suspicious sounding.

“You want to spend time with me,” Liam says.

“You are literally here in my house,” Mike says. “For the next week. Great deduction.”

That alone is like, super win, Mike admitting that him inviting Liam to his place — okay, agreeing when Liam invited himself — is a result of Mike maybe wanting to spend time with him. But Liam thinks he’s onto something.

“You want me to help with the dishes so we can spend time together,” Liam says with relish. “As a couple.”

Mike goes the kind of still where he’s about to deny everything and also aggressively sulk. If Liam had any self preservation skills maybe he’d quit while he was ahead, but he doesn’t, and this is making his day, which started with a blowjob and included three bomb-ass meals and some plausibly deniable cuddling in front of the TV, so was already pretty great.

“You don’t have a dishwasher because you’re _romantic_ ,” Liam decides.

The next time he visits, a dishwasher has been installed.


	84. Robbie, David, Matty; contender

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” Robbie says, then smacks Matty’s arm, hard.

“I see,” Matty says, not bothering to complain about Robbie hitting him for once.

Robbie doesn’t think there’s anyone lower on his list of Caps most likely to get into a fight than Chaps. Maybe himself, now that he knows the complete suckitude of having a bruised ego _and_ a bruised face, but he actually had to get into a fight to learn that. As far as he’s aware, David’s never actually fought anyone. Well, before now, at least.

He’s already doing better than Robbie, though so far it’s been a couple aborted jabs and mostly Chaps and the Lightning player, too far from the bench to identify, circling one another, hands fisted in each other’s jerseys. Kurmazov’s hovering just far enough away that he won’t get grabbed by the refs, close enough that he could theoretically jump in if it went south. Anyone else fighting, he wouldn’t, but Robbie doesn’t have a doubt in his mind he’d risk a game misconduct to stop Chaps from getting pummeled. 

The other guy’s not much bigger than him, maybe six foot, 6’1” at most, but presumably he’s got a little more experience than David’s zero. “I can’t watch,” Robbie says, hiding his face in Matty’s shoulder.

Matty turns his head enough that Robbie can hear him over the crowd. “Chaps got a jab in,” he says. “Face. Sparks” — ah, it’s Sparks. Yeah, he’s not really a fighter either as far as Robbie’s aware. — “Got one to the stomach. Chaps got another.”

“How is he better at this than me?” Robbie complains, but looks up to watch now that he knows Chaps isn’t going to die, only catching Sparks losing his balance and Chaps falling on top of him before the refs come in to break it up.

“Nice fight,” Robbie tells Chaps approvingly when he gets back to the bench after serving his time.

“You didn’t even watch it,” Matty mutters, too low for Chaps to hear, and yelps when Robbie takes his glove off to pinch the back of his neck.


	85. Robbie; PT Article

Everyone knows they’re going to have to quit hockey someday. At most, you’re one of the the ones kicking ass through their forties, but even then you’re retiring before most people have their mid-life crises. Except surprise, you just got yours early, because retiring from hockey is entering a whole new existence.

I wasn’t one of those guys making it into my forties, quit while I was behind a properly working shoulder and a guaranteed roster spot. I can’t complain: I’ve got two Stanley Cup rings, walked out of the locker room and into a job offer within the space of months. I know a lot of guys who weren’t as lucky. The majority of hockey players have a high school degree and zero job experience. That’s it, that’s the education you’re required to have, and maybe not even required, now that I think about it. Most of the guys in the league jumped right from high school to professional hockey, were playing hockey professionally when they were in high school.

I wasn’t one of them. See, I was short. At 5’10” and a bit, rounded up to 5’11” when someone’s feeling generous, I’m still short, not in general, but certainly for a hockey player, let alone a defenseman. But in high school, I was really short. I was pretty good, but I was also 5’8”, and can you think of a 5’8” defenseman in the NHL? No, you can’t, because I double-checked records to make this point, and there isn’t one. Or maybe there was like a hundred years ago, but in today’s and yesterday’s NHL, no one’s taking that leap of faith.

Boston University took that leap. To be honest, that was as much because I was a good student at an elite high school as because of my hockey, but I made it to BU’s training camp. The very first day I was paired with Georgie Dineen, who’d been drafted tenth overall by the Cleveland Barons just two months before. If that was meant to be a joke, it was a joke on them, because we tore it up together through training camp and beyond, and my play with Georgie was what eventually caught the eye of the Capitals GM through his Terriers fan daughter.

I was never drafted, but that attention from Barrett Rutledge led to a contract offer after my third year of college, at which point I started my career with the Capitals. My parents always told me to finish what I started, and while I didn’t attend my senior year at BU, I did eventually graduate with a degree in Economics thanks to long-distance programs, since it’s pretty hard to go to classes when you’re playing hockey professionally. That commute from DC to Boston is a killer, and don’t even start about away games.

It’s my degree that got me my job offer when I retired. Not solely my degree, far from it: AHL brass were very clear that they wanted to hire me because I lived the sport, but they also made it clear that had I simply held a high school degree, they wouldn’t have been comfortable giving me a position, and who could blame them? A hockey career doesn’t exactly give you a gift for business, in the same way working in business doesn’t make you an elite hockey player. They’re mutually exclusive until they aren’t.

Not that I _had_ business experience. I had a degree I’d gotten over ten years before, and zero real world economic experience, unless you count putting some of my salary into stocks instead of buying a flashy car whose worth would depreciate faster than my worth did once I got shoulder surgery. It was less the degree itself than what it meant: that if I could handle juggling a hockey career and school I could probably be trusted to work hard, that the fact I finished my degree despite getting picked up by the Caps meant I had my priorities straight.

Not to say the guys who never finish their degrees or jump right into the NHL are stupid, just a little shortsighted. It’s hard not to be when you’re barely an adult, getting offered a lot of money to do something you love. But hockey’s got a short expiry date unless you’re the best of the best, and even though you need to be pretty damn good to make the show, statistically you’re probably not the best of the best. There can only be so many.

A million dollars — my salary in my final season — is a lot of money to make in a year, but once you’ve got taxes, your agent, housing, food, all the necessities you have to pay for, you’re left with maybe 200,000. Poor Robbie, I know, but my point is that I’ve got probably fifty years left to live, God willing. If I hadn’t been careful about my money, if I didn’t continue to be careful about my money, well. There’s no shortage of stories about athletes declaring bankruptcy mere years after retirement.

It’s not just about money, though. I could have retired for real and lived pretty comfortably on my earnings for the rest of my life, precisely because I had been careful about my money throughout my career, knowing that it’d end sooner rather than later. But what was I going to do all day? There are former players who liaise their hockey career into coaching jobs, sportscasting, representation, front office, but there are only so many of those jobs on offer. And sorry, I kind of took one of them when I accepted a job with the AHL.

It’s really, really hard to think about what you’re going to be doing in your thirties and forties when you’re eighteen years old. Honestly, it’s hard to think about what you’ll be doing in a year when you’re eighteen. But I’ve heard ‘what now’ from so many of my former teammates, in varying shades of confusion and dismay, and while they probably wouldn’t enjoy hearing ‘ you probably should have thought about that ten years ago’, nor would it be helpful, it might be for those who’re just starting their careers, still stunned by their good fortune.

So: be stunned by your good fortune. Enjoy it while it lasts, because it’s awesome. But know that one day you aren’t going to be a hockey player anymore, and start to think now about what it is you want to be.


	86. Aaron/Matt, offseason

Matt guesses it could be worse. If he was dating a Raptor he’d probably never see him, considering the whole splitting the Air Canada Centre and therefore never being in town at the same time and almost identical offseasons. Still, between their travel schedules, and the fact that it’s considered at least a little polite to maybe spend some time at home during the offseason, Matt hasn’t seen Aaron since two weeks into the hockey season, when the Jays got knocked out of the playoffs and Aaron headed back to San Diego.

“What’s the weather there?” Aaron asks on Skype, always one of the first ones. Matt half wonders if Toronto gets a nice heat wave going he’ll fly up. Of course, they get a nice heat wave going in the middle of November, well.

“Above zero,” Matt says hopefully. That’s nice weather.

Aaron snorts.

“It’s 17 where we’re headed,” Matt says, hoping Aaron will ask.

“Already got tickets,” Aaron says.

“Wait, seriously?” Matt asks.

“Matt, it’s like a hundred miles, you think I wouldn’t come up to see you play the Kings?” Aaron asks. “Seriously?”

“Didn’t want to assume,” Matt says.

“Well, assume,” Aaron says.

“Tickets?” Matt asks. “Plural?”

“My ma’s coming with me,” Aaron says. “Wants to meet ‘the nice Canadian boy’.”

“You tell her no one’s ever described me that way?” Matt asks.

“I’ll let her figure that out herself,” Aaron says, and Matt gives him the finger. “She’s started watching. Doesn’t understand half of it, just knows she’s supposed to hate the Habs.”

“Sounds just like you,” Matt says.

“Hey,” Aaron says. “I know I’m supposed to hate the Sens too.”

“Making good progress,” Matt says, grinning.

“I’ve got good incentive,” Aaron says, and Matt’s grin widens.


	87. David/Jake, Kiro/Emily; overachiever

“How do you do it?” Davidson interrupts in the middle of one of Kirill’s stories. He isn’t usually the type to interrupt, so Kirill stops to listen, prompts him with “Do what?” when Davidson doesn’t continue.

“Like,” Davidson says, pausing again, the kind that Kirill prompting wouldn’t help, because he’s trying to find the right words. “How do you do something nice for someone who doesn’t like flowers?”

“Like Jake?” Kirill asks.

“Yeah,” David says.

“I think Jake would like flowers,” Kirill says. Davidson snorts like he’s joking, but Kirill bet he would.

“It’s about knowing them,” Kirill says. “Would Emily appreciate flowers or a book more?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but Davidson answers with, “Book, obviously,” which makes Kirill kind of happy, the complete lack of hesitation David says it with.

“So send something Jake likes,” Kirill says, then, “Not hockey.”

“Kiro,” David complains.

“Not hockey,” Kirill says firmly. Hockey presents have their place, and they can be romantic — Jake’s birthday present to Davidson before the Olympics was impressive and made Kirill step up his gift giving the next year, but he knows David. No hockey.

Three days later Jake comes into practice absolutely beaming, and Kirill has a feeling Davidson listened.

Kirill nudges Jake’s arm. “Davidson did good?”

“Davidson did good,” Jake says, grinning. “You give him instructions?”

“Obviously,” Kirill says, and Jake elbows him lightly, still grinning. “What’d he send?”

“Box set of romance movies, bottle of wine and a stash of chocolate,” Jake says. “I need to borrow your fiancee for movie night sometime soon.”

“I’m not invited?” Kirill pouts.

“You’ll just laugh through them,” Jake says, which is probably true.

When Kirill comes home, Em pops her head out of her office. “You know why David sent me Maxim Gorky’s collected works?” she asks. 

“No idea,” Kirill says. “Jake says he needs to borrow you for movie night.”

“I’m game,” Emily says. “Cats are stoned out of their minds, David sent catnip toys too.”

 _Overachiever_ , Kirill texts David, getting a simple _:)_ in return.


	88. Mike/Liam, Bartender!AU (cont.)

One day, Mike the bartender is going to give in and serve Liam an alcoholic drink. That has been Liam’s vow basically since he started coming to this place, along with the much more important but probably less likely vow that Mike will fall head over heels and agree to go out with him. 

Today ends up being that day, but Liam would prefer a Shirley Temple if that meant he hadn’t just failed his biomechanics course.

“Where are your friends?” Mike asks, when Liam sits at the bar, looking all suspicious. 

Liam shrugs. “Dunno,” he says.

“You’re here alone?” Mike asks.

“Yup,” Liam says. 

Mike frowns. “Look, kid—”

“I’m not here to hit on you,” Liam says. “I just really need a beer, okay? And like, can you not pretend I’m underage for once because I need to get drunk.”

Mike’s quiet, still frowning. He looks good when he frowns. It’s like his default facial expression, so that’s good. “What kind?” he asks.

Liam shrugs. “Whatever’s cheapest,” he says. “I don’t really care.”

Mike keeps on frowning, but he gets Liam his beer without making a whole thing of it, and Liam goes to get up. “Cool if I start a tab?” he asks.

“S’fine,” Mike says. “You don’t need to move.”

“Don’t want to bug you,” Liam mumbles.

Mike sighs. “You’re not bugging me,” he says. “What happened?” he asks. “You get dumped or something?” Liam could swear his face gets frownier when he mentions the possibility of Liam dating someone, but that’s probably just wishful thinking.

“Still totally available,” Liam says, and even remembering his grade — and the fresh hell his parents are going to give him and the fact it’s a prerequisite for courses he needs to take next year so he’s kind of fucked if he doesn’t take it as a summer course, which his parents will probably pay for but be absolutely furious about — he can’t help shooting Mike his second-winningest smile. Fitzys gotta be Fitzys. “Failed an exam. Probably going to have to retake the class during the summer if I want to stay on schedule for graduation.”

“Sucks,” Mike says. “Beer’s on me.”

“Seriously?” Liam asks. “You can do that?”

“If I want,” Mike says with a shrug. 

“Is this you buying me a drink?” Liam asks.

“I don’t _have_ to pay for it,” Mike says.

“I’m drinking it, I’m drinking it,” Liam says.

“You stuck here all summer,” Mike says. “You know. You can swing by for a drink once in awhile.”

“You’ll keep me company?” Liam asks.

Mike shrugs. 

“I’ll take you up on that,” Liam says.

Mike nods, jerky, looking almost embarrassed, and Liam can’t help another smile.


	89. Adam; security

Dana has a dog, a brute of a beast who probably outweighs her. Adam’s terrified the first time he meets him. Not scared for himself, but for Freddie, who’s two and dwarfed by him.

“Watch him,” Dana says, when he points that out.

It takes less than an hour for Adam to get it. Bear, a good name, is patient with Freddie. He doesn’t move when Freddie tries to climb on him, except to lie down. Freddie climbs on him then, petting less than gentle, and Bear just sighs and turns his head to lick Freddie’s cheek, puts his head on his paws when Freddie starts to laugh, loud, almost shrieking.

“See?” Dana says. “He’s sweet.”

“Sweet,” Adam says.

“Like you are,” she says. “Big and sweet.”

“I’m not that big,” Adam says, then, “I’m not sweet.”

“Happy birthday Dana, how much is your rent? Here’s it times twelve,” Dana says. “But I’m not sweet.”

“I can afford it,” Adam argues.

“Sounds sweet to me, A-dumb,” Dana says.

“Don’t call me that,” Adam says.

He’s said it probably a million times, and every time she just says it louder. This time she says, “What they say about you is bullshit.”

“Freddie’s right there,” Adam hisses.

“Bullshit, Adam,” she repeats.

“I know,” Adam says.

“He sleeps on the couch, but if he tries, just shove him off,” Dana says when she’s going to bed.

“I don’t know if I could,” Adam says, and she snorts.

“Night, bro,” she says, pressing a kiss to his temple, and leaving him with the dog. Bear keeps looking at him when he’s putting sheets on, and the second Adam lies down he tries to jump onto the couch with him.

“You don’t fit,” Adam says, nudging Bear off him, heavy enough it takes some effort. Bear, like he understands, crawls off to lie on the floor beside him.

“You take care of them, okay?” Adam asks. He feels stupid saying it. He feels even stupider thinking Bear understands, but he seems to.


	90. Gerard/Sven/Yvette, lil Gerard; ask your mother

“Mama said I could,” Gerard says, which is possibly the worst possible words in the world to hear, because it puts you in an awkward place. To judge the veracity of it, first: did Yvette say he could, is it in Yvette’s nature to say so, would Yvette be more angry if Gérard gave in to falsehoods from an eight year old or if he doubted her word? 

Then the repercussions if it’s false: Gerard viewing him as a soft mark, and all the lack of respect that comes from that, which Gérard’s very accustomed to in practice, thanks to a neverending flow of rookies. 

But then: will Gerard see him as a harsh taskmaster, strict and unfair, or, worse, someone who distrusts what he says? 

It’s an endless balancing act he knows that Sven and Yvette deal with too, but it feels more urgent for him. For Sven and Yvette, Gerard is their child, genetically and legally, and Gérard’s — well, Gérard’s nothing, really. A friend of the family. His guardian if the worst happens. A teammate of his father’s. Someone he shares a name with. Nothing.

“Ask your dad,” Gérard finally goes with, because he’s a coward.

Gerard frowns. “You’re dad,” he says.

Gérard swallows hard, twice, to get through the lump in his throat.

“Dad!” Gerard says impatiently when he doesn’t say anything.

“Ask pappa,” he revises.

Gérard throws his hands up dramatically. “Mama said I could!” he repeats, then stomps off.

Later reports from Yvette confirm she did not, in fact, say he could.

Brat.


	91. David; Cup day

Mom almost makes her turn the car around twice on the drive into downtown. “He won’t remember me,” mom says the first time.

“He was thirteen, not three,” Andrea reminds her. She remembers David, even though she was six when her mom stopped working for the Chapmans. David taught her how to hold a stick, how to shoot a slapshot, though he seemed annoyed a lot, so she probably wasn’t very good at it.

“Turn around, Andrea, I don’t want to impose,” mom says the second time.

“It’s a public event,” Andrea says.

“You know what I mean,” mom says.

“You won’t be,” Andrea says. “You practically raised him, mom, saying hi isn’t imposing.”

She spent more time with David than she did Andrea and Christian. Obviously Andrea’s aware now that it was literally her job, but you don’t really get that when you’re a little kid who wants her mom because her dad can’t read her bedtime stories right. Poor dad.

“I don’t want to do this,” mom says when they get in line to get a photo op with the Cup, and more importantly David. Andrea made sure to get there super early, but there are still a couple dozen people people ahead of them. Andrea takes her mom’s hand, partly for reassurance but mostly to make sure she doesn’t make a break for it. Andrea has watched countless Islanders games, equally countless Capitals games, went in with Christian on a Chapman jersey for her mom last Christmas, watched her mom burst into tears when the Capitals won the Cup, and she is not going to let her back out of this. Not happening.

The line moves pretty quick, probably because of the policy that an arena employee is briefing everyone about, one picture with the Cup and David, one piece of memorabilia to be signed, no exceptions. Mom’s hand starts shaking in hers when they get near the front, and Andrea holds tighter, hopes so hard that he recognizes her, because she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he breaks her heart. Probably get arrested for punching a celebrity during his Cup day.

Andrea stands back when it’s their turn, shoos mom forward when she looks back at her beseechingly, holding her phone out, set to record. David glances at her and away, and Andrea feels kind of sick, watches the photographer take a photo of her mom and David on either side of the Cup, can’t make herself take one too with her mom looking a little heartbroken. 

She can barely hear her mom’s ‘hi’, tremulous, even though she’s less than ten feet away. He says ‘hi’ back, looking at her properly for the first time, and Andrea can see the exact moment he recognizes her, this stupified look on his face, and then he’s pulling her into a hug, her head barely up to his chest, and even from where she’s standing, Andrea can see him shaking.

“How did you—” David says, “How are—”, then, “Can we take five minutes please?” to the organizers, who look kind of befuddled.

Andrea puts her phone down when she sees her mom wipe her eyes, David doing the same, against his shoulder, like no one will notice he’s crying if he doesn’t use his hands. She scribbles down her mom’s number on the back of a receipt hanging out in the bottom of her purse while they take their five minutes, and David’s mostly put himself together when its Andrea’s turn, eyes a little red but back to the stern professional thing he always has going.

“I’m Andrea,” she says, and when it doesn’t seem to click, “Mary Anne’s daughter. I brought her here.”

“Thank you,” he says, and it sounds a little rough.

“Here’s her number,” Andrea says, holding out the paper. “We live in Nepean, you’d — it’d be really nice if you guys got dinner or something while you’re in town. She won’t ask, but it’d mean a lot to her.”

“I’ll call her tonight,” he says, and after the photo’s taken, he pulls her into a hug too, and Andrea finds out he’s still shaking.


	92. Riley Lapointes, Singhs; audience participation

Dan’s never been the most artistic guy or handy guy. He always preferred literally any sport to quiet time colouring or building or crafts, and Charlie was the same. The most interested in any kind of toys she got was a Playmobil hockey rink Dan put the stickers on ‘wrong’ and had to let Marc take over, relentlessly mocking his lack of skills until Dan threw a tiny Hab at his head when Charlie left the room.

Dan’s point is that it’s kind of pathetic, but his nine year old is way better at making signs than he is. He’s nice about it, because he’s nice about everything, but he’s put his little foot down and made sure that Dan’s duties are limited to colouring in letters. It’s kind of embarrassing.

Dan’s dutifully colouring in the W in Warriors while Leon carefully draws a little hockey player, looking back and forth from the poster to a reference picture. Dan pauses to watch Leon add a bright yellow ponytail and a kind of terrifying grin to the face of the hockey player. The resemblance is uncanny. Dan’s seen that expression many, many times, from the stands most recently, but also across from the bench when the Sens played the Habs.

Dan’s red marker is dead and so is his wrist by the time they finish the sign. “Looks great, Leon,” Dan says, and it does, mostly because Leon only let Dan do things he couldn’t screw up.

“Thank you,” Leon says. “Now we do Jaya’s sign.”

Dan holds back a whimper. “The red marker’s dead,” he says, without much hope.

“I have another,” Leon says, and Dan does wrist exercises while he goes to get it.

Dan’s not saying that Leon has a favourite or anything, but Jaya’s sign has a lot more glitter than Charlie’s does, though most of it seems to have ended up on Dan and Leon. Rahul grins a little when he sees them, which makes Dan think the glitter’s migrated to their faces.

“For you,” Leon says to Rahul seriously, handing him the poster he made for Jaya.

“Thank you,” Rahul says very seriously in return. “Can you help me hold it up?”

“Yes,” Leon says, and scrambles up onto the riser so he can hold it as high as possible, getting on his tiptoes when Dan holds the Charlie sign up so the Jaya one’s higher.

“Careful,” Dan says, but nothing else, and tries not to laugh when Leon, waving the sign, gets covered in a fresh coat of glitter.


	93. David, Kiro; failsafe (AU)

Orange apparently hates Blue.

“Maybe she just needs time to adjust,” David says, when Kiro tells him this over Skype, looking unnaturally serious.

Kiro holds out his arms, and even though the grainy webcam David can see the scratches, vivid and dark. David winces.

“I saved Blue,” Kiro tells him. “His poor nose is hurt though. Put him outside for his safety.”

David can’t help but make a face. It’s December, and Pennsylvania’s not exactly warm.

“I know,” Kiro says. “But what else do I do? Let Orange eat him?”

“Orange won’t eat him,” David says.

Kiro holds his arms up more emphatically this time. “I worry for his safety,” Kiro says, still without a trace of humour.

“Do you have any friends who want a dog?” David asks.

David did not want a dog. 

David’s never wanted a dog, at least not since he was a kid, when the answer was an emphatic no. Dogs need a lot of attention, and a lot of work, and David isn’t even around half the time. It’s selfish to get a dog. Except a mix of a very tiny dog with a very big bandaid on his nose and big pleading eyes, and Kiro’s equally big, equally pleading eyes, means David has somehow acquired a dog.

“I have a security deposit on this place,” David says. “So you can’t scratch up the floors or anything.” He’d thought the apartment didn’t allow dogs at all, but apparently it’s just dogs over thirty pounds, and even when he grows up, Blue’s not going to reach that. So there went that excuse.

Blue continues to explore the apartment, and David winces to hear his nails clicking against the hardwood.

“I don’t even like dogs,” David says, when he’s sat down to watch highlights and Blue’s started pawing at the couch, but he sighs and picks him up, lets him settle in his lap.

“We don’t like those guys,” David tells Blue when a highlight from a blowout Rangers win comes on. “At all.”

Blue snuffles.

“Just making sure you know,” David says.


	94. Aidan/Charlie; competition

Aidan’s run into Howe a lot in when he’s working out. The kind of a lot that thinks Howe might have had a point, bitching about management conflating weight gain with lack of fitness instead of puberty, which he’s right in the middle of, though maybe it’s working out to shed the pounds. None of Aidan’s business. Any good impression Aidan might get from that was destroyed by the way Howe spent an entire workout session bitching handsfree to someone about how much worse the facilities are here than they are at SAP. Like, wow, no shit, the Sharks make 150 million bucks a year to — Aidan doesn’t even know what the Barracudas make, but it sure as shit isn’t even close to that. Sorry you don’t get to use a ten thousand dollar treadmill or whatever.

Howe’s mostly ignored him, beyond the nod hello you always give someone you’re sharing a small space with. They both keep focused with their headphones in — Aidan less because he usually does, because he doesn’t mind letting his mind wander, but it’s hard to do that when something bass heavy’s always leaking from Howe’s headphones. Guy’s going to lose his hearing before he can legally drink.

Howe doesn’t say anything beyond ‘morning’ or ‘later’ pretty much the whole time their workouts have been overlapping, so Aidan’s a little surprised when he gets a sudden blare of bass before he hears, over his music, “Fuck, how fast are you going on that thing?”

Aidan finishes his twenty seconds on before he takes his ear bud out. “What?” he asks.

“You looked like the freaking Road Runner,” Howe says.

“Wanna race?” Aidan asks. “I’m on round three, so you get the handicap.”

“Pass,” Howe says.

“Why?” Aidan says. “Afraid you’ll lose to a ‘burn-out’?” It’s amazing, the shit he’ll say with teammates in earshot.

“Fuck it,” Howe says. “You’re on.”


	95. Jaya, Charlie; first date jitters

Jaya doesn’t think she’s ever actually been on a date before.

“What about that girl?” Charlie asks. “Becca or whatever?”

“Bianca?” Jaya asks. “We were friends.”

“You had a giant crush on her,” Charlie says.

Jaya…isn’t going to bother denying it, since Charlie will call her on it. “She had a boyfriend, Char,” she says.

“Seemed flirty to me,” Charlie mutters under her breath. She met Bianca once for maybe five minutes, which Jaya doesn’t think is enough time to judge. Some people would think her and Char were dating, watching them interact. Blurry lines between seeing romance versus friendship or family. Or both, when it comes to Charlie.

“Are you sure this is a date?” Charlie asks. “Maybe she has a boyfriend too.”

“Are you here to help me get ready or make me question everything?” Jaya asks.

“I can do both,” Charlie says, but gets off Jaya’s bed to start rooting in her closet. “Here,” she says, thrusting an arm out with a shirt Jaya hasn’t worn in months, if not years. “You look nice in this.”

“Really?” Jaya asks. “I don’t look—”

“Whatever you’re going to say, no,” Charlie says. “You look good in it. It makes your skin all glowy.”

“Glowy,” Jaya says.

“You know what I mean,” Charlie mutters.

“Okay,” Jaya says, when Charlie’s also approved a pair of jeans that Jaya thought might be a little too tight, but apparently get two thumbs up for ‘ass magic’. “Unless you’ve learned hair or and make up in the two days since I saw you last, I’m kicking you out.”

“You look good now,” Charlie says unhelpfully.

“Out,” Jaya says, and Charlie ducks out of the room with a final ‘good luck!’.

Having Charlie there had suppressed the worst of the nerves, Jaya distracted by Charlie’s…Charlie. They rear up full force in her absence, but Jaya doesn’t have time for them, puts on the Charlie approved clothes. She hasn’t even looked at this shirt in awhile, shoved in the back of her closet, but after putting it on Jaya has to admit Charlie was right. She might not use the word ‘glowy’, but it’s flattering, tighter than she’d usually wear since she bought it in her mid-teens but not too bad. She nearly pokes herself in the eye three times, putting on eyeliner, but she gets it done without any bodily injury, and looking in the mirror, she looks — she looks good.

She sends a picture to Charlie for confirmation anyway, because that’s the way they work.

 _Hot shit, J_ , Charlie texts her back, and Jaya holds onto that on the ride to the restaurant, holds on tight.


	96. David/Jake; Uncle David

Offseason is Uncle David time. This was something that was more true before David retired — now Christmas is Uncle David time, and All-Star break, one Friday a month when David and Jake go for dinner at the Kurmazovs, the multiple times a season Volkie and Em come up pretending they want to use David for free Caps tickets and David totally doesn’t realize that’s an excuse. Jake doesn’t want to break it to him. He likes his Max time. Whenever his sisters visit to actually shamelessly get tickets and also free babysitting, which, Jake’s fam. No complaints there either.

Offseason is extra Uncle David time though, and Jake loves David like, every single way in the world, but he thinks he might love Uncle David the most, the way the kids love how serious he is, get kind of serious too sometimes, so it’s like watching David and what a little David would have been like. Adorable, for the record.

David doesn’t think he’s very good at it, Jake knows, and he isn’t like — it doesn’t come natural to him the way it does to Jake, maybe, Jake knows he works really hard at it, but he’s good with them, remembers all their favorite things and whatever food they find gross this month, talks to them about their interests, treats them like little adults, which they all love, and Jake feels like he’s nineteen all over again sometimes, watching them, or like the kiddos are him, practically bouncing in excitement to get some of David Chapman’s attention, to deserve a moment of his time.

Jake remembers the look David gave him once, with Max cradled in his arms, wide eyed and scared. He compares it to now, Max chirping David about the Blue Jays, every bit his father’s son, laughing at David’s attempts to chirp back until David shoves his shoulder affectionately.

“What are you doing?” David says, when Jake comes over to give them both a hug.

“Group hug,” Jake informs him, and presses his smile against David’s neck while Max snickers.


	97. Roman, Mike; tooth fairy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: depiction of injury, depiction of medical (dental) treatment, some really cruel foreshadowing. You know. The usual. I’m squeamish (I know, right, great sport to basically centre your life around, Taylor) and it wasn’t too bad, other than like, pictures accompanying the research I did, but YMMV.

Fighting Mike Brouwer’s kind of a litmus test for how you’re doing. If you fight, chances you’ll fight him eventually, unless he’s out of your weight class. Which he kind of is, in Roman’s case, has a few inches and at least fifteen pounds on him, and experience wise it’s some whole other thing, since Roman’s been in a grand total of one fight at NHL level, and that was against a dude who fights maybe once or twice a year. Not that fighting’s really a practice thing. Yeah, you maybe spend more time at the punching bag than other teammates, but honestly the most important thing is to stay on your feet. You stay on your feet, you win basically all the time.

Roman stayed on his feet. He gets a lot of claps on the back for that during the next practice, that the fight ended when they ran out of energy, that he got some licks in, though Brouwer probably got three to every single one of those, and the ones that he got in hurt like everliving hell. Roman’s gotten into fights before, on the ice and, in shittier times, off the ice, but he’s never taken a punch like the kind Brouwer threw, let alone like, fifteen.

Roman’s halfway to the box when the referee comes to turn him around.

“I getting a misconduct?” he asks. “What’d I do?”

“You’re getting a new jersey,” the ref says, sounding like, nicer than any ref has ever sounded. “And maybe some tests.”

“Yeah, we got him,” the trainer says — Roman needs to remember his name. It’s still early in the season, but he feels crappy whenever he doesn’t. He manages his teammates’ names fine.

“He said I’m getting a new jersey,” Roman says.

“Yep,” the trainer — Doug? Larry? Something you’d expect some guy in his seventies to have, even though he looks maybe forty, forty-five tops — says. “You get a look at yourself?”

“How would I do that?” Roman asks. “There aren’t any mirrors on the ice.”

Doug, Larry, maybe Bob laughs and leads him right to one, which was a horrible mistake. Roman’s face isn’t too bad, though he’s pretty sure he’s going to have a hell of a shiner and his lip’s already getting fat, but he’s got blood all down the front of his jersey he can’t figure out the source of until he grimaces, and —

“My teeth,” Roman moans. He liked his teeth. He brushed them three times a day and flossed and he’s never had a single cavity. He’s also never lost any of them, at least the adult ones, and now two are gone.

Three, it turns out, because one turns out to be hanging by a thread when the emergency dentist comes down to survey the damage after he passes an ImPACT test.

“Good news,” he says. “Refs gave us your teeth.”

“I’ll give them to the Tooth Fairy,” Roman says. “Think she knows about inflation? Last time I lost one I got a buck.”

Turns out the Tooth Fairy isn’t necessary, though an emergency root canal or like, three, is necessary. By the time Roman has his teeth back in his mouth, hopefully not temporarily, and a cage to look forward to next time he plays, game’s over, only a few stragglers remaining, all who give him a slap on the back.

“Brouwer left the game too,” Fox says. “So hey, you did good kid.”

Roman gives him a thumbs up, because talking doesn’t feel like a plan right now, lets Michaels give him a ride home.

“Don’t need to prove yourself to us,” Michaels says before Roman gets out.

“He got Parky in the numbers,” Roman says. “I’m going to protect my guys.”

Michaels doesn’t say anything for a second. “Good man,” he says finally, and Roman gives him another thumbs up, because it seems to be working well enough for him right now.


	98. Adam; the right word

Adam wonders if winning the Cup feels like this. If you feel like your heart’s so big it’s going to explode. He could ask Lapointe. He could ask a number of his teammates, but he doesn’t want to. What if they said winning the Cup was better?

Adam doesn’t think anything could feel better than this. There’s a heavy weight on his chest, and it’s made of gold and grit, hard work, determination.

The media asks him after the game how he feels, and all that freezes on his tongue. “It feels good,” he says, which is true. Not good enough, not what he means, but true. It feels good.

He’s got a lot of missed calls on his phone when he checks it. It’s early in North America, early or very late. All those people woke up early, set alarms. Maybe didn’t bother to go to bed. It hurts, looking at those calls, his texts, but in a good way. Good’s still not the right word. He’ll find it.

He calls his mom back first. She’s probably at work, but he can leave a message.

She picks up on the second ring. “I thought you’d be at work,” Adam says.

She laughs. “Like I wouldn’t take the day off?” she asks. “I didn’t get any sleep, I figured my son winning us a Gold medal was a good reason to call in.”

“I won Gold, ma,” Adam manages. Not telling her, because of course she knows, just. Saying it.

“I know,” she says.

“I don’t know how to feel,” Adam says.

“Feel proud,” she says. “Because I do.”

That’s the word he needed.

“I do,” he says.

“Good,” she says, and that startles a laugh out of him, giddy and unlike him, a laugh his mom doesn’t hesitate to join.


	99. Matty, Robbie; concern

Robbie’s sad. Robbie’s sad, but that isn’t really all of it. Elliott knows what sad looks like. Sad is easier than what Robbie’s dealing with, because sad is one thing, and Robbie’s at least five things at once, always changing. Sad’s always there, and angry, too, though it depends on the day which one seems bigger. A bunch of other things Elliott isn’t sure he could name, but can see the results of, the days he doesn’t talk much, especially for him, the days he talks a lot, like usual, but it has an edge to it, like if you argue with him he might hit you or burst into tears. The days Elliott can’t figure him out at all, which are the scariest by far.

Elliott doesn’t know what to do. Be there for Robbie, of course, that doesn’t even take a second thought, let him know he’s willing to listen, those things are easy. But Elliott doesn’t know what will set him off, thought he knew Robbie pretty well, but things he wouldn’t blink at upset him right now, and things he’d react to, not really mad but responding to chirping, some of those he doesn’t even seem to hear.

Finding out about Georgie, it’s — it’s not good, Elliott’s not saying it’s good, especially the shit Robbie went through, but it’s a relief, knowing a little better why, maybe being a little better equipped to be there, to listen. It feels like a step forward, kind of.

Except suddenly things with Georgie are done, and Elliott thought that might be a relief, thought that might be another step ahead. Two steps forward.

Ten steps back.


	100. Vinny/Tony; stocking up

Anton has a Costco problem. Thomas doesn’t understand it, because he has no problem buying expensive things, doesn’t go to the sale rack the first time he enters a store like Thomas does. Sometimes he doesn’t even look at the price of things before he buys them, which genuinely upsets Thomas, a little, this sort of casual ‘I know I have it’, even though of course Anton does, and the money he was raised in — of course he doesn’t have to check the price of pants. Thomas probably doesn’t have to either, though he does, and he’s never been able to avoid the urge to find the cheapest thing, if he can’t find something on sale.

So Costco, Costco makes sense for Thomas, but Anton’s the one who gets the membership. “Dep had an extra,” he says, which Thomas knows is a lie, because you have to be at the same address, he learned that when his mom tried to get him on theirs. Thomas doesn’t call him on it.

Costco doesn’t really make sense for the two of them. If they need something, they need one of it, not three. It’s good for socks, which they pick up by the dozen, Gatorade, sometimes food if someone’s staying with them, but most of the time the grocery store makes more sense, so Thomas quits going.

Anton doesn’t, and the reason Thomas knows that is because every time Anton goes to Costco, they suddenly have another blanket, the soft, microfiber kind it’s nice to rub his face up against, easy to wrap around himself when the house is too cold. He picks up other things sometimes, Gatorade or a case of beer or way too much soap, but every single time, blanket. Thomas thinks he has the same blanket in four different colours. It’s a very cozy blanket. All four of them are.

“You good?” Anton asks him before they start a movie, then tucks Thomas’ newest blanket (red!) more tightly around him.

“We need to talk about your Costco problem,” Thomas says, but only because he has a red blanket now.


	101. Caps; kidnapper Crane

Craney shows up to practice with a baby, and there are at least ten sets of exchanged looks before Robbie bites the bullet and speaks up.

“You knock someone up, Craney?” he asks, and braces himself just in time for the whack on the back of the head Quincy gives him. What, it’s not hard to believe. Craney gets around more than all the single guys combined. Girls must dig the crazy eyes, because he’s not bad looking or anything, but something’s got to be getting him extra points.

“Whose kid is that?” Quincy asks, which just seems like a nicer way to ask if he knocked someone up.

“Well,” Craney says, which is unusually un-direct of him.

“Did you kidnap someone’s baby?” Wheels asks, sounding horrified, and once he says it, well. Robbie can definitely see that. That seems like the second most likely option. Even Quincy looks concerned.

“No,” Crane says, scowling. “It’s my sister’s.”

“You have a sister?” Robbie asks. How has he known Craney for this many years without knowing he has a sister. “He has a sister?” he whispers to Matty.

“Two, and a brother,” Matty says, and Robbie feels very betrayed. Matty knew all along. Unfair Saskatchewan bond. He’s probably even met them, and here Robbie was, thinking Craney was an only child and that explained the weirdness. Robbie can’t even blame the Saskatchewan — Matty’s normal — or the only child then — one of four! — so he just has being a goalie to fall back on. To be fair, it’s a pretty strong reason.

“Why did your bring your —” Quincy squints at full camo. “— sister’s kid to practice?” he asks, because of course he’s refusing to assume the gender. Also it’s a Crane, Robbie wouldn’t be surprised if they put all their kids in full camo from birth.

“She’s in the hospital,” Crane says. “Took her there before practice.”

“Jesus,” Quincy says. “Dev, you didn’t need to come to practice, go to the hospital, dude.”

“She just went into labour,” Craney says with a shrug, and Q, whose wife’s pretty damn pregnant, goes a little white.

“Just?” Quincy says. “Go to the hospital. Now.”

“She told me not to,” Craney says. “I can stick around. Help out.”

If you told Robbie the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen is Crane staring at him from the stands with a baby in his arms, well — actually, Robbie probably would have agreed immediately. He alternates rocking the baby, who’s found some ear muffs bigger than his or her head — count on Craney to call his niece or nephew J (Jay?) and confuse them all even more — and calling out suggestions and corrections and threats.

“Please let me do my job,” Coach calls over at him halfway through, with something like despair, then mumbles, just loud enough for Robbie to hear, “God help us all if he ever becomes a coach.”

Robbie has just replaced the most terrifying thing in the world. God help them all indeed.


	102. Jake, Kiro; Secret Santa

Jake doesn’t actually know what Volkie likes, which is a weird thing to realize. Like, he knows some key things: Kiro likes David, because he has great taste, and Em, for the same reason. He likes cats, which aren’t Jake’s thing but aren’t  _not_ Jake’s thing. He loves trolling. None of those are actually a gift idea, though.

Jake likes to think he’s a pretty thoughtful gift giver. He’s never given a gift card in his life — though, no dissing them, he loved getting them when he was a kid, especially if they were for sports stores. He thinks pretty hard about gifts, and people seem happy when they get them. 

Seriously, he has zero clue what to get Volkie. Cat toys he could do, but that seems like cheating, all ‘you have a cat, here is a present’. Jake would worry about any teammate, but he hasn’t had problems in previous years. Most of the guys are easier. And Volkie’s not just a teammate, is David’s best friend, and Jake doesn’t want to screw this up. 

Jake asks David, after guaranteeing his secrecy — “Do you think I can’t keep a secret?” David asked, with offense that was totally deserved, because he’s not the one of them that has that problem. At all. David’s…he’s not very helpful in the end. Jake feels guilty saying that. 

Jake can’t ask Em. Asking Em’s cheating. Jake can’t cheat at  _Secret Santa_.

Two days before the Secret Santa he’s arm and arm with Em at the mall. It’s only a little cheating. No one will mind. 


	103. Matty, Robbie; automatic ice cream

Elliott knows it’s stupid to be upset. It was a few dates, not a relationship, and Robbie doesn’t talk much about his last boyfriend, but Elliott knows it was a long-term relationship, and he knows it didn’t end well. When Robbie’s withholding details, it was probably bad. He’s like that when bad stuff happens: he’ll talk about anything, but every time they’ve been knocked out, he won’t say a word. His last relationship seems kind of like that.

The thing is, Elliott doesn’t know what he did. If she’d told him at the end of the last date, or even texted him to let him know there wasn’t chemistry or things in common or something, he’d still be hurt, but it wouldn’t be the same as this, thinking it was going good until she didn’t respond, not that day, not the day after. He got the point.

“I come with Ben and Jerry’s,” Robbie says, knocking on Elliott’s open bedroom door. Dougie has been nice about it, and so has Lauren, but seeing a super happy couple kind of sucks right now, so he’s a nice change. “Which is like, guaranteed break up crack.”

“I thought it wasn’t a break up,” Elliott says.

“Well,” Robbie says. “Way things are right now, who knows what the fuck’s a break up? You’re upset, so you get ice cream.”

“You don’t think I’m overreacting?” Elliott asks.

Robbie hesitates, which Elliott guesses is an answer. “I think it fucking sucks, getting dumped,” he says. “Especially with someone who doesn’t have the balls to do it properly. And shut up, I know she doesn’t have balls.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Elliott points out.

“And she’s stupid, because you’re awesome, okay?” Robbie says.

“Thanks,” Elliott says.

“Eat your ice cream,” Robbie says, summoning a second spoon from what seems like thin air. “Before I eat it for you.”

“It’s mine!” Elliott says, but he lets Robbie in on it after a few bites.


	104. Bryce/Jared; tips and tricks

**1\. “Expressing and Sharing Feelings”**

> **I. “Be Honest.”**

Well, that one’s easy. Bryce is off to a great start.

“Do you have a filter at all?” Jared groans.

“Honesty is important, Jared,” Bryce tells him. “It’s one of the foundations of a successful relationship.”

Jared stares at him.

Bryce grins back.

“Have you been reading some dating shit or something?” Jared asks.

“…no,” Bryce says.

Little lies are fine, he’s pretty sure.

> **II. “Trust ~~her~~  him”**

Done and done.

> **III. “Contribute equally to conversations”**

Super done. Bryce is rocking this shit.

> **IV. “Be a good listener.”**

“You haven’t interrupted in like, two minutes,” Jared says. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m listening to you,” Bryce says, and continues to work on his ‘interested and engaged’ face.

“You’re freaking me the fuck out,” Jared says.

“Please tell me more about your sister,” Bryce says.

“Have you been  _replaced_?” Jared asks.

“With what?” Bryce says.

“A robot?” Jared says, and then they end up fighting over whether Bryce would make a better Transformer or sex doll. Bryce can be both, thanks.

**2\. “Showing Affection”**

> **I. “Show affection often”**

Bryce is so on it.

“If you don’t let me sleep I’m going to murder you,” Jared groans, and Bryce pouts and quits kissing his neck.

> **II. “Appreciate ~~her~~  his beauty”**

“You have beautiful hands,” Bryce says. Jared’s been doing homework, which is  _boring_ , but if he flunks out of high school Bryce is pretty sure his parents will blame Bryce. Also, compromise was on the list.

Jared puts down his pen. “What do you want?” Jared says.

“What do you mean?” Bryce asks.

“If I give you a handy after will you let me finish this?” Jared asks.

“…Yes?” Bryce says.

Dude, he’s going to call Jared beautiful  _all the time_  if handjobs are the result.

Not like it isn’t true anyway.

> **III. “Compliment ~~her~~ him sincerely”**

“Nice fucking mitts, Matheson!” Bryce yells, cupping his hands around his mouth to make sure Jared hears him. He gets a dirty look from a lady sitting a row down at the open practice. Whatever, her kid looks at least twelve. No way he doesn’t know the word fuck.

“You’re so embarrassing,” Jared groans when Bryce picks him up after, but he’s smiling.

> **IV. “Give gifts, at special times and anytime.”**

“Dude, seriously,” Jared says. “You already got me a watch. I don’t need three watches. How many wrists do you think I have?”

“This is a dressed up watch,” Bryce says. “You can’t wear the watch you’re wearing to the draft.”

Jared narrows his eyes. “Why not?” he asks.

“Because it’s trashy?” Bryce says.

“The watch  _you got me_  is trashy?” Jared asks.

“No?” Bryce says. “Just like, for big stuff.”

“ _You’re_  trashy,” Jared says, kind of joking but kind of mad, and Bryce is pretty sure he’s got to step carefully right now.

“Fair,” Bryce says, and Jared tries to hide his laugh behind a cough, but Bryce is totally onto him.


	105. Various; Canada 150

It’s not that Andy doesn’t like crowds — he doesn’t, really, but he can handle them. But this is too much.

“We can’t just sit around and miss everything,” Derek complains. “We don’t have to go to Parliament, we can just chill in Byward Market or something.”

“Everywhere’s going to be like, lines out the door,” Andy argues.

“Sens House is doing a free-agency thing,” Derek says. “And I’m pretty sure they’ll take an actual  _Sens’_ reservation.”

“We can’t just go to a Senators bar!” Andy says.

“Why not?” Derek says. “You said everything will be booked up, you’re probably right. Besides, don’t you want to make some little kid’s day because they got to meet Andy Bowman?”

“No,” Andy mutters.

“No?” Derek asks. He’s smelled blood. He keeps using Andy’s love for kids against him and it isn’t fair.

“Maybe,” Andy allows.

*

“We’re not camping in the backyard this time?” Anton asks skeptically.

“Nope!” Vinny says, shooting him a wide smile. “Dad found out about the best place, we can see the fireworks from there and everything.”

“Wow,  _fireworks_ ,” Anton says, and probably deserves the pinch to the elbow from Vinny. “What’s your mom going to do?”

“She’s invited this time,” Vinny says. “The whole family together!”

Anton smiles at his shoes.

“That includes you,” Vinny says.

Anton got that, but he didn’t mind Vinny making it explicit.

*

Slava, as always, tags Canada Day as a day off. David doesn’t know why, it’s not like Kiro or Oleg or Jake are celebrating it, and David isn’t really either. Apparently there are a couple places in New York where Canadian ex-pats go on Canada Day, but David doesn’t see the point.

Kiro, apparently, does.

“We going, final,” he says firmly, and Emily crosses her arms and nods behind him. “Get your Canada stuff on.”

“My…Canada stuff?” David asks. “I don’t think I have any Canada stuff.”

Kiro goes rooting through his suitcase. “Hey!” David says.

“Here,” Kiro says, throwing a red t-shirt at him. “Good enough. Put it on. Jake meet us later.”

Five minutes in the door and David’s already signed a half dozen hats and coasters. “I hate you,” he hisses at Kiro.

“Your Canadian duty, Davidson,” Kiro says. “Now smile.”

David glares at him, but smiles weakly at the guy wearing the Team Canada shirt who comes up next.

*

“Stop looking at your phone,” Stephen says. “What if they put you up on the Jumbotron and you’re not even watching?”

“They are way more famous people here,” Gabe says. “Lapointe and his husband are here, no one’s going to care about me.”

“What are you looking at anyway?” Beth asks, leaning over to look over his shoulder.

“Just seeing where my buddy’s going,” Gabe says. “They have to do free-agency on Canada Day every year?”

Stephen steals his phone.

“Hey!” Gabe says.

“I’ll let you know if Rasmus signs anywhere,” Stephen says. “Pay attention.”

“Fine,” Gabe huffs, and frowns when Stephen elbows him in the third inning to let him know he’s going to LA.


	106. Raf, Jared, Oleg, David; terror

Oleg Kurmazov is terrifying. That’s an opinion Raf had cultivated before he ever met him, before he was even drafted by the Capitals, and even months into his rookie year, he can’t shake it.

“I don’t know,” Jared says. “Chapman kind of spooks me.”

“How?” Raf asks, and isn’t surprised when Jared answers with the exact reasons Raf feels comfortable around him. Chapman’s the opposite of scary now that Raf’s gotten to know him beyond how intimidating his stats are. Raf doesn’t want to sound arrogant, but he’s always been the best player on any team he’s played on, excepting the national one. Obviously that’s no longer true, even ignoring the fact that it’s becoming clearer and clearer that Crane’s generational. Raf’s on pace for maybe three-quarters of Chapman’s rookie season, and Chapman didn’t even win the Calder that year. Of course that’s intimidating.

But Chapman himself? He’s quiet, and polite, and reserved. Raf finds that to be a lot less intimidating than some of the other Capitals, who are friendly, but in a way that feels like a lot, invitations he isn’t sure are meant genuinely or just to do their duty of welcoming the rookie, throwing around inside jokes he doesn’t understand, loud and brash, and just — Raf kind of thought he’d have graduated past that when he left Juniors, but apparently not.

Technically all the things that make Raf more comfortable with Chapman than anyone else on the team apply to Kurmazov too, but it feels heavy? Like when he’s quiet he’s judging Raf, and he’s polite because he doesn’t like Raf, and he’s reserved because he doesn’t have any interest in talking to Raf. Raf knows it’s stupid to say in one breath that most of the Caps are a little too loud for him and then complain that Kurmazov’s too quiet, but it bothers him.

“Is it the Russian thing?” Jared asks. “Because not cool, Sanchez.”

“It’s not the Russian thing,” Raf says. “It’s like—” he tries to explain that feeling, that he’s being found wanting.

“That sounds like your problem,” Jared says. “Like, completely in your head, Raf.”

“You don’t know him,” Raf says.

“You don’t either, really,” Jared says. “Besides, I know plenty of judgmental people. I understand judgmental people.”

“You are a judgmental person,” Raf says. He never was with Raf, but everyone else? Usually he was murmuring about them to Raf while Raf tried not to laugh, failing whenever he got just a little too accurate.

“Exactly,” Jared says. “You’re too perfect to judge, Raffi. I surround myself with perfection.”

“Your boyfriend is Bryce Marcus,” Raf says flatly.

“Oh, I judge him plenty,” Jared says. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“He wears a necklace with your initials, Jared,” Raf says. They did a whole show on player’s superstitions, and Raf went from drowsily watching to bursting out laughing when Marcus showed off the ‘JM’ saying it was for ‘someone special’.

“See, this is why I judge him,” Jared says, sounding as embarrassed as the first time Raf laughed at him about it. “Back to you being piss scared of Kurmazov.”

“I’m not piss scared,” Raf says. “I’m just — he’s intimidating.”

“Have you ever actually like, I don’t know,” Jared says. “Tried to talk to him? Words? In a sentence?”

“You’re being judgmental again,” Raf says.

“I can’t turn it off,” Jared says. “It’s my default state. But seriously, dude, he’s a grownup who plays a game for a living, none of us are that mature.”

“Speak for yourself,” Raf says.

“I’m sure he doesn’t like, secretly hate you, okay?” Jared says. “Me on the other hand—”

“Ha ha,” Raf says flatly.

The next time they’re out, Raf’s chewing on the straw of his pop, watching Lombardi and Matthews arguing about something. He thinks it’s the friendly kind of arguing, but it makes him uncomfortable, want to get away so he doesn’t have to listen.

“Come sit with me,” Kurmazov says, appearing out of nowhere, and not laughing when Raf jumps like almost everyone else would. It sounds like an invitation but also not like an invitation? Raf doesn’t feel comfortable declining.

“Want to talk about your forecheck,” Kurmazov says, and Raf swallows. “Think I might have some ideas.”

By the end of the night Raf’s been invited to the Kurmazovs for dinner, which he feels he can’t not accept, and for an extra practice session with Kurmazov and Chapman he’s more than happy to accept.

“He’s still terrifying,” Raf says, when Jared asks during their next Skype session. “But I like him?”

“My baby’s growing up,” Jared says, actually sounding proud, and laughs when Raf gives him the finger.


	107. Dan, Charlie, Riley Lapointes; the best

Dan did his best.

“It is your motto,” Marc says dryly, when Dan says as much, which is probably fair. That’s what he was always told growing up: do whatever you want to do, Dan, just do your best at it. Sometimes his best has been good, sometimes it hasn’t. Sometimes it’s been amazing. He knows he’s reused that bit of advice more than once or twice with Charlie and Leon, and both of them have been amazing at it every time, knocked it right out of the park. Their best is breathtaking.

“You can’t cry before the Olympics even start,” Marc chides, while Leon pats his shoulder. “What if they do terribly?”

“They won’t,” Leon says in French, softer than Dan’s, “Then I’ll be proud my daughter made the  _Olympics_ , Marc.”

“I am too,” Marc says quietly.

“They won’t, papa,” Leon says again.

“I know, Lion,” Marc murmurs in French, something Dan wouldn’t have been able to pick up even a decade ago. He does his best.

*

“Put it on,” Charlie says, after. She’s got tears on her cheeks, and for the first time, it doesn’t hurt Dan to see them. He’s got tears of his own. They don’t hurt. They’re the furthest thing from pain. “You never got one, it’s not fair.”

Dan did his best, but his best was never quite the same as Marc’s, as Char’s. He doesn’t resent that. He’s  _proud_  of that.

“It’s yours, sweetheart,” Dan says.

“It’s yours too,” Charlie says, and when she puts it around his neck, it’s heavy, but it feels right.


	108. Ryan/Nikolaj; creamer

Nikolaj hates grocery shopping. Between the not insignificant chance of running into a Sabres fan, the crowds at times he would never expect, and the too bright, too sterile feel of the store, it’s not one of his favorite activities. He tried grocery delivery, but inevitably something was left out, and it always seemed to be the item he needed most, so he’s taken to going during times he knows are quiet.

One of the benefits of quiet is, well, quiet, that he won’t have to interact with anyone but the cashier, but that’s disrupted by the sight of Epstein walking into the dairy aisle and stalling in front of creamer while Nikolaj debates whether he should get plain or vanilla to accompany his muesli.

Epstein usually looks, well — it’s a far cry from the suit and tie he wears to work from him now, wearing a pair of sweat pants and a hoodie and glasses. Nikolaj didn’t even know he needed glasses. He supposes there’d be no reason for him to. He looks tired. Soft.

Nikolaj swallows and looks back down at the yogurt before grabbing the closest to his hand, then shuffles a few steps away to the cream cheese. He doesn’t know if Epstein’s noticed him. Doesn’t know if he wants him to. He looks over, almost despite himself, to see Epstein glancing back, before he ducks his head, and it’s that, the way Epstein pretends not to see him either, that goads Nikolaj into saying, “See you tomorrow, Epstein.”

“Uh, yeah,” Epstein says, turning around and waving. He looks flustered, and Nikolaj isn’t sure why. “See you, Madsen.”

“Nice glasses,” Nikolaj says, his mouth ahead of his brain. They  _are_ nice glasses.

“Well,” Epstein says, “Nice almond milk,” and Nikolaj looks down at his basket, then over at Epstein’s, unable to bite back a smile. It seems like Epstein was paying just as much attention to Nikolaj as Nikolaj was to him.

“Tomorrow,” Epstein says with a nod, shuffling off, and Nikolaj looks back at the cream cheese to suppress the urge to look at his ass.


	109. Evan; deep breaths

Evan takes a deep breath. Then another. He takes a third, for good measure, when those aren’t enough.

 _You’re just calling your sister_ , he reminds himself. Usually calling Emma wouldn’t require deep breaths, but he just knows that she’s going to ask how he is, if he’s found a boyfriend, and he’s not going to be able to lie, and then it’s all going to come out. But he can’t not call her, because then she’ll be worried, and she’ll call him, and maybe this entire conversation will happen in public, with Harry or Roman or both nearby, and —

Breath in, breath out. He hopes he gets her voicemail.

“Hey Munchkin,” Emma says. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” Evan says.

“You don’t sound fine,” Emma says, then, “You breathing, Ev?”

“Trying to,” Evan says, and she waits, quiet, on the other end of the line until he is.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, and Evan can’t even try to deny anything’s wrong. It comes out, instead, in a torrent he has no control of, one Emma doesn’t interrupt, even when he thinks he might be telling her more than she wants to hear, certainly more than he meant to tell her.

“Buddy,” she says, when it’s all come out. It sounds pitying. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it.

“I don’t know what to do, Em,” Evan says. “Please tell me what to do.”

“I can’t,” she says. “Munchkin, you know that.”

“I know,” he says, because he does, but he doesn’t want to.


	110. Seb/Si; 10,000 km

Seb brings up Simon coming to the Olympics idly, a few times, after he’s tapped for the training camp, and more than once after he makes the roster, but it isn’t until two weeks before, when Seb offers to buy him a ticket, that Simon realises he’s serious about it.

“Sebastien, I have a job,” Simon says. “I can’t fly out to South Korea for weeks.”

“My parents are,” Seb says.

“Your parents are your  _parents_ ,” Simon says.

“And you’re my  _Simon_ ,” Seb says.

“Your Simon whose world does not, actually, revolve around you,” Simon says, and when the silence on the other end of the phone sounds distinctly hurt, “Sorry.”

“No,” Seb says. “You’re right. You’ll watch, though?” 

“Obviously,” Simon says.

“And not taped, you better be up at the crack of dawn,” Seb says.

“When am I not?” Simon asks.

“And you’ll wear my jersey,” Seb says. “Oh, I’ve sent you a jersey. And Audrey. And your mom. And your stepfather.”

“Of course you did,” Simon says.

“You’ll wear it,” Seb says.

“Yes, Seb, I’ll wear it,” Simon says.

“Good,” Seb says.

*

Simon didn’t realise exactly how often they called each other until Seb goes to the Olympics. Seb isn’t mad at him for not going, at least Simon doesn’t believe so, but between the time difference and what Seb calls the ‘chaos’ in PyeongChang, sounding unsurprisingly gleeful about it, it’s hard to find a time to talk. Seb sends him a barrage of texts instead, enough that Simon despairs to think of what his phone bill will be like, but it isn’t quite the same.

“You’re moping,” Audrey says after the first week, with the same amount of glee Seb pronounced ‘chaos’.

“I’m not moping,” Simon says.

“You are and I’m telling Seb,” she says, because she’s as awful as he is. Honestly, Audrey acts more like Seb’s sister than his own. Seb got to her too young.

During the quarter finals Seb has to admit to himself he is moping. He’s wearing Seb’s jersey, as promised, sitting the the pre-dawn, nose buried in his coffee, not watching the game as much as trying to pick out whenever Seb’s on the ice, following the tiny, streaking figure.

They win. They win, and they’re going for Gold, and Simon comes in late for work, aching that he won’t be there, that Seb will just be that tiny streaking figure, 10,000 kilometres away. It’s stupid, there are so many of Seb’s milestones Simon’s missed, watched from a distance, this shouldn’t be different, this shouldn’t feel so awful, except —

He thinks he knows why, and it terrifies him.


	111. David/Jake; regency au (cont!)

(Continuation of [this](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/post/122308905331/sotw-davidjake-regency-au))

 

His parents both disapproved of his day trip to the pond with Lourdes, despite the presence of Lourdes’ mother as chaperone. “If you catch a chill?” his mother asked, despite the fact David had never experienced illness, had the constitution of, in the words of his tutor Kurmazov, a ‘bear’, which David presumed to be a compliment.

“It is one of his passions,” David said, trying, very desperately, to hold back entreaty from his tongue. “Do you not want me to express an interest?”

“And if your ineptitude costs you the engagement?” his father asked then, which touched upon David’s greatest fear. He worried little about the engagement, far less than he knows he should, yet the idea of failing at this sport that has captured his imagination, that is terrifying.

“You told me you had never played before!” Lourdes says, after tutoring David on the basics, which come to David more easily than he could imagine. Mrs. Lourdes looks out from her carriage, then returns to her novel. She has barely spared them a glance, which David’s father would find scandalous, her nose instead in a book, which David’s mother would. David feels a fondness toward her he did not before today.

“I have not,” David says. “I assure you, I am no liar.”

“I did not mean to accuse you of that,” Lourdes says, “It is merely — you are  _phenomenal_.”

David feels himself colour, and hopes the winter air disguises the flush upon his cheeks.


	112. Jordan, Anton, Jake; Blueberry’s debut

“Alright, Blueberry,” Jordan says. “We ready?”

Grace makes sounds like she is, in fact, ready to rock.

“If you drop my daughter on the ice…” Lindsay says.

“Pain, suffering?” Jordan asks.

“Castration,” Lindsay says darkly.

“Blueberry’s safe with me,” Jordan says.

“She looks more like a strawberry right now,” Lindsay says, tugging her Red Wings jersey more firmly over her little red mitts.

Grace looks up at her, then shoves a mitten in her mouth. It’s gone missing entirely by the time they get onto the ice.

Jordan blows on her little hand. “Don’t want you to get cold, Gracie,” he says, right before she sticks a finger right up his nose.

“Ow,” Jordan says. “Also ow.” Unclehood is sometimes hard.

“Since when do you have a kid?” Anton asks, when Jordan sits beside him on the ice. He doesn’t have to do anything but hardest shot, so it’s mostly just a social event in the meantime. “I thought you were—” He cuts himself off.

“Still am,” Jordan says. “My niece.”

“Hi niece,” Anton says.

“Want to say hi, Gracie?” Jordan asks, shifting her on his lap closer to Anton, and laughs when Anton recoils. “Not a kid person, Petrov?”

“Can I say hi?” Jake says, sliding in on his ass, hip knocking Jordan’s and disturbing Grace, who frowns over at him. She’ll have a withering glare by the time she’s two, at this rate. Medusa powers by ten. Jordan’s excited for it.

“Hi Jake,” Jordan says, waving Grace’s mittened hand.

Jake makes like, the most pathetically smitten noise Jordan has ever heard. “Hi baby,” he says, about two octaves over his speaking voice.

“Please tell me you got that,” Jordan says to Anton, who’s got his phone out.

Anton looks up, frowning. “Got what?” he asks.

“Useless,” Jordan mutters.

When it’s his turn to go up he carefully transfers Grace over to Jake, who looks delighted.

“If you kidnap her my sister will kill me,” Jordan says.

“Yeah,” Jake says distractedly, which is concerning, but Jordan’s got to go beat Anton again. Anton beat him last year, that’s not on.

“Where’s Grace?” Lindsay asks Jordan gets off the ice.

“Jake stole her,” Jordan says. “Was out of my hands. Literally.”

“Why does Jake Lourdes have my kid?” Lindsay asks.

“I’m letting her live the famous life,” Jordan says, and lo and behold she’s shortly returned to him by a reluctant looking Jake. Practically every inch of her jersey is covered in autographs, more than half of them with smileys beside them. She’s a pretty cute baby, his Blueberry.

“Look,” Jordan says. “Safe and sound and with a jersey to frame.”

“Where’s her mitten?” Lindsay asks, because she always has to focus on the bad.

“She ate it,” Jordan says, then, “Hey, you can’t kick me when I have the Blueberry!”

“You won’t drop her,” Lindsay says, with confidence that warms his heart until she kicks his shin again.


	113. David/Jake; naptime

David doesn’t particularly like taking naps, except before games. He enjoys the nap itself, he supposes, but on game days it’s a form of preparation, and on off-days it’s just a waste of time. Still, he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to keep his eyes open, watching the Jays game. Typically that isn’t a problem, but typically they aren’t playing the Tigers, who they’re currently beating 6-0. He thinks Jake may have already drifted off, judging from the soft, even breathing ruffling the short hairs on the back of his neck, the way his hand on David’s waist is loose, lax.

“Why do the Tigers suck so much?” David asks. It’s mostly to himself, though if Jake’s even slightly awake, he’ll respond.

Jake pulls away, head moving into David’s peripheral. “Excuse you,” he says. Awake, then. David feels a little guilty for disturbing him, but not too guilty. It’s almost dinnertime. Jake will disrupt his sleep cycle if he naps now.

“You’re not even watching the game!” David says. “You can’t argue!”

“I was watching,” Jake argues.

David turns to face him, Jake loosening his grip. “You—” he starts, then Jake darts forward to kiss his nose, which distracts him. He doesn’t remember what he was saying. “Jake!” he says.

“Mhm?” Jake asks, nose rubbing against the crest of David’s cheek. He’s warm and sleepy eyed, like maybe he was sleeping until David spoke. It makes David sleepy just looking at him.

“Nap, babe?” Jake says, sounding far away, then, “Yeah, you’re napping,” and he feels what he thinks is the press of a kiss against his forehead before he drifts off.


	114. Ryan, Georgie; stock answers

Dineen’s season has been, well.

“How do you feel about your season?” Ryan asks, and Dineen laughs. It’s. Not a great laugh. He’s heard Dineen laugh before, other occasions, and he’s actually got a pretty nice one. This isn’t a nice laugh. Ryan honestly doesn’t blame him.

“There are certainly a lot of places I could improve,” Dineen says, “And I plan on working on my areas of weakness during the offseason.”

It’s a good answer, a stock answer, addressing the criticism Ryan knows he’s been getting, from the media to the fans to, at one point, a pretty scathing comment from his coach that Ryan wasn’t the only one wincing at. He’s a rookie, but he’s not a teenager, has the maturity Ryan’s found in a lot of the guys who went the college route, didn’t tumble straight from high school into something a whole lot bigger than they might have imagined, scarier.

“What do you consider to be your areas of weakness?” Ryan asks.

Dineen gives another good, stock answer, says the exact things that he’s been called on all season: that he sacrifices defense in favor for offense, that he doesn’t always take the man he should, that his net front presence has been more of a hindrance than a help, and that he’s planning on working on his defensive awareness, his play in the corners, hopes that he can become a more well-rounded defenseman.

“What do you consider your strengths?” Ryan asks, and Dineen hesitates. He answers eventually, and he’s not wrong about any of them, but it’s that moment of hesitation, that bitter, ugly laugh at the first question, those are the things that linger with him, even though he doesn’t write about either. Could, but the idea of it, putting down in words those moments, how beat down he looked, it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.


	115. David/Jake, Russian Mafia; defensive play

Kiro starts it. That’s not the first time David’s said that.

It begins when Kiro starts attacking everyone with kisses. David knows that’s more common in Russian culture than North American — or North America minus Quebec, where they seemed to kiss a lot — but he also knows Kiro’s just doing it to amuse himself, because Oleg whacks him in surprise the first time he does it, and Slava makes him run laps in punishment. He mostly quits with with his fellow Russians after another Oleg attempt ends with him in a headlock and Slava equips himself with a spray bottle.

“That’s not water,” Kiro says, examining it.

“No,” Slava says. “Want to find out what it is?”

“Not really,” Kiro says, then darts back to kiss David on the cheek before running away with a cackle.

“I work with children,” Slava sighs while David blushes and scrubs his cheek. Kiro kissing him on the cheek isn’t a new thing, but it’s not a public thing, and not something that’s happened in front of Jake. Jake laughs before going to examine Slava’s spray bottle himself, so David doesn’t think he’s mad or anything, but he doesn’t want Jake to feel the same way about Kiro as he used to.

“I know he’s trolling,” Jake says, when David brings it up that night. “I swear, like, half the Panthers are trolls. Worst thing you can do to a troll is not react.”

David tries not to react the next time Kiro kisses him, on the temple this time, and mostly manages it, he thinks, until it escalates, David jumping back several feet and going furiously red when Oleg pecks him on the cheek himself later that week.

“I can’t believe he roped you into this!” David says, betrayed.

Oleg’s bent over laughing, so he doesn’t respond.

It reaches the point where David’s on edge, constantly, trying to keep his distance in case he gets surprise kisses. Kiro and Oleg have never done it when it’s actually dangerous to surprise him, like if David’s at the weight bench, so he spends some time there, maybe too much, judging by Slava scowling down at him.

“Up, you are tiring yourself out,” Slava says, and after he gives David a hand up, officiously kisses his hand.

“Slava!” David says, snatching his hand back.

Slava snickers and walks away.

“You said not to react!” David says later night.

“I maybe underestimated Kiro,” Jake says.

“Maybe?” David asks.

“I’ll brainstorm a plan,” Jake says. “Maybe give Gally a call.”

“Don’t involve Gallagher,” David says firmly. He’s heard far too many stories about Gallagher.

The next day, when David’s changing into street clothes, Jake kisses him on the cheek. Obviously that’s something that he’s more than comfortable with, but at home, not in front of the Russians, Kiro hooting approvingly when David buries his face in his hands.

David can’t believe Jake would betray him like this. Except he can, because he knows Kiro. He’s very convincing.

Jake looks far too pleased with himself. He shouldn’t. David grabs Jake’s cheeks and pulls him forward to kiss him him hard on the mouth.

“Um,” Jake says, eyes wide and mouth parted. He looks good, so good and David darts in for another, forgetting he actually had a purpose, just because he can’t resist himself.

“So there,” David says, when he pulls away, then, “Next person to kiss me gets kissed back.”

“Promise?” Kiro asks, stepping forward, and laughs when Jake chases him off.


	116. Annie, Harry, Erin; knowing

Annie grew up watching hockey, obviously, between Sam and Harry and Debbie, and she enjoys it, enjoyed it when they were little and Harry would fall down at least once a game, asked to go to along to tournaments instead of getting left back at home, loves turning on an LA Kings game and seeing Sam, gets this moment of pride every time, ‘that’s my shithead brother!’

Watching the Riveters is a whole other thing. She started doing some pro bono work for them in college, wanted to pad out her experience and figured she couldn’t be the only Chalmers kid not involved in hockey, that she might get disowned. Years later she’s still doing it, and she’s not going to lie, it’s for the free tickets.

Harry’s in town for Spring Break just in time to watch the final game of the Riveters season. “Watch a team get knocked out just after my team gets knocked out, that’s comforting, Annie,” he grouches, and then grouches some more about coming back home just to get dragged to a game, but he shuts up as soon as the puck drops, leaning forward so minutely she’s sure he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

“Who’s Morrow?” Harry asks after the first intermission.

“Uh, the captain?” Annie asks.

“Yeah, but you watched her like, whenever she was on the ice,” Harry says.

“I was watching the game!” Annie says.

“Mostly Morrow,” Harry says. “You know her?”

“I know like, all of them,” Annie says, “You know I—”

“Oh, you know her,” Harry crows triumphantly, “You’re blushing!”

“I am not,” Annie says, then elbows Harry when he starts laughing at her.


	117. Seb/Si; destination wedding

“I’m not getting married in a castle,” Simon says into his pillow. He was having such a nice dream, something he can’t remember now, but that he knows was good, and then Seb came in all excited, talking about castles. Yesterday it was yachts. The day before, Aruba. If Seb is trying to play ‘places Simon would never be willing to get married’ bingo, he is getting really close to filling his card.

“Si,” Seb complains.

Simon rolls over and sits up. “How long have you been awake?” he asks suspiciously. Seb looks very…awake. Not that he doesn’t usually, Seb’s on almost all the time, but this is something else.

“Awhile,” Seb says flippantly. “I was on Pinterest.”

Simon doesn’t know what that means, but he thinks it’s probably not a good thing. He looks over at his phone, which says it’s six-thirty in the morning.

“Did you come to bed?” he asks, more suspicious.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen!” Seb says, darting out of the room, which sounds like a resounding ‘no’. Simon is not looking forward to the come down.

Seb crashes on the couch around noon. He’s been listing steadily to the side for the past hour, so it was only a matter of time before he conked out on Simon’s shoulder. Simon carefully shifts his laptop out of his lap and onto the coffee table, runs his fingers through Seb’s hair, and goes back to work.

He doesn’t stir at all when Simon has to get up to stretch, just kind of…falls slowly as Simon eases him down. Simon should wake him in an hour or two if he plans on getting any sleep tonight, but he’s going to be grumpy when it happens. He’ll let him sleep for now.

He knocks Seb’s laptop accidentally when he puts his own down, which opens up onto the last webpage. When Seb wakes up Simon’s going to nag him until he puts a password on his computer.

He goes to hit the power button to put it back to sleep, but gets caught on the page that’s open, ‘How to Plan a Cozy, Intimate Wedding’ in big title letters.

“You stealthy little shit,” Simon says admiringly to Seb’s sleep slack, deceptively innocent face.


	118. Vinny/Tony; touch of evil

It comes up when they’re in Hartford, Anton’s mom saying that her mom would love to meet him properly, not just at the arena, that they should go for dinner when they’re in NYC that week.

“That would be great,” Thomas says, before Anton can make an excuse, and pretends not to notice Anton glaring. It  _would_  be great, and Anton should visit his grandma anyway.

“I need to warn you,” Anton says, before they head over to her place in Brooklyn. “She’s kind of evil.”

“I don’t see it,” Thomas says. She seems tiny and lovely to him.

“You also don’t see it with Carmen,” Anton says. “Or—”

“Did you just compare your grandma to Sandro?” Thomas asks.

“No!” Anton says. “She’s like…a good evil.”

“So…not evil at all?” Thomas asks.

“Evil like my mother,” Anton says.

“So not evil at all,” Thomas repeats.

“Ugh, you’ll see,” Anton mutters. Apparently he turns into Sullen Teenage Anton with his grandma as well as his parents. Good to know.

She is lovely and tiny and perfect all through dinner, just like Thomas thought. It isn’t until they’re clearing the table — or, Anton is, because she insisted Thomas remain seated — that he understands.

“Thomas, would you like to look at some family pictures with me?” she asks in French. Thomas knows she speaks English, they used English in front of him so he could understand what they were saying, so switching to French means it’s something she doesn’t want Anton to understand. Anton’s frowning, looking between them, and Thomas, looking at him, almost misses the edge of her smirk. “I have some lovely pictures of Anton as a boy.”

Oh, Anton means  _that_  kind of evil. The kind of evil that just means ‘enjoys embarrassing Anton because it’s easy and hilarious’.

Thomas _loves_  that kind of evil. Thomas _is_ that kind of evil.

“I would love to,” he says, and when Anton frowns at him, gives him a beatific smile.


	119. Ryan/Nikolaj; fluttery

Ryan has to admit it’s a problem sometime around the time Madsen gives him a smile hello — not even necessarily him, just, where he is in the room; Brett shifts uncomfortably beside him, which underlines its rarity — and something in Ryan goes, like. Fluttery.

“Fluttery!” he says to Becca. “Of all the fucking words, that is the one I’m stuck with. Do I seem like a fluttery person to you?”

“I mean, kind of,” Becca says.

“Hey,” Ryan says.

“But not a person who’s generally inclined to use the word fluttery,” Becca says.

“Right?” Ryan asks. “Right?!”

“You can’t tell me this is the first time you’ve thought one of the players was hot,” Becca says. “I have seen their bodies.”

“Seriously, it is,” Ryan says.

“I don’t believe you,” Becca says. “You’ve never found any of them attractive? Like, if you saw one of them in a bar without knowing who he was you wouldn’t go ‘hey, he’s hot, also damn, that  _ass_ ’.”

“I mean, in a bar, yeah,” Ryan says. “But I know these guys. Definitely never attracted to them.”

“A whole bunch of men suddenly feel really offended and have no idea why,” Becca says. “Also damn, are hockey players that bad?”

“They’re not bad,” Ryan says. “I just — I’m a journalist, you know?” He feels kind of stupid saying that to Becca, who works for fucking  _Time Magazine,_ but she sat beside him in ethics class, so she obviously gets it, and she’s never rubbed their differing trajectories in his face.

“I know,” Becca says. “How’s his ass?”

“Rebecca!” Ryan says. “Why would you even assume—”

“So, great, then?” Becca interrupts.

“Yeah,” Ryan sighs.


	120. David/Jake; caffeinated connoisseur

It’s kind of hilarious, how David takes up coffee once he retires. Jake doesn’t know if David just didn’t like the taste of it when he was younger, or whether he just wasn’t comfortable with more than a small mug of tea’s effects on his body, neither would be surprising, but right when Jake starts cutting down on his own coffee intake, David becomes like, coffee master. Jake’s pretty basic coffee pot, which has done its job just fine, gets replaced with a shiny machine that looks like it belongs in a Starbucks, along with a weird even more lo-tech thing (”French press” David informs him), and Jake’s morning coffee suddenly gets a whole lot better.

He’s not surprised that the second David decides he’s going to do something he kicks ass at it, that’s how David is, either he doesn’t do it at all or he gets an A+. Jake’s getting used to sitting down in the mornings to a ‘try this’, and David looking at him expectantly while he sips, waiting for his opinion. Jake doesn’t think he does a very good job at it (David’s no longer accepting ‘yum’ or ‘awesome’ as answers), because like, he’s pretty great at it, but Jake can barely tell the difference between dark roast and medium roast, all he’s learned from this is that even David can’t make an espresso Jake’s willing to drink.

He doesn’t use words at all this time, the cup whisked away before he says a thing. He maybe made a face. Okay, he definitely made a face. “I think it tastes okay,” David says, after a sip of his own.

“I don’t think I’m an espresso man,” Jake says weakly and wonders if David will be upset if Jake goes and like…gets a glass of water to wash the bitterness away.

“Oh,” David says. “I won’t make it anymore, then.” It tastes better on David’s lips when he kisses Jake goodbye before his morning jog, so Jake doesn’t mind if he does.


	121. Bryce/Jared, Dave; skipping out

Bryce is barely out the door after his first week when Summers calls. Bryce glances down at the console, wondering if Summers, like, managed to get his schedule or something, but then he doesn’t even know why he’s wondering, because of course Summers did.

“Yo,” Bryce says, after he reluctantly stabs accept.

“Marcus,” Summers says. “How was week one?”

“Good,” Bryce says.

“Good?” Summers repeats, like Bryce just said something bad.

“I mean, fine,” Bryce says. It wasn’t even good, it kind of sucked a lot of the time, and he’s stuck here instead of getting to go home. No wonder Summers is all suspicious. “Better than, like, little kids or picking up trash or whatever.” If he was working with little kids there’d be no — shut up Marcus.

“Are you driving right now?” Summers asks.

“Yeah, but it’s on like, speaker or whatever,” Bryce says.

Summers sighs. “Got a call earlier,” he says. “You’re not planning on skipping out or anything next week?”

“Hey,” Bryce says. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“If you wouldn’t do that I wouldn’t call asking if you’re going to do that,” Summers says. “Humour me by saying you won’t.”

“I won’t,” Bryce says. “I told you, it’s good.”

“Yeah, why is that?” Summers asks.

“I should probably focus on the road,” Bryce says quickly. “You know, save you some stress?”

“By all means,” Summers says. “I find out you skip out next week I’m calling your fucking mother.”

“Jesus, Dave, I’m not going to skip out, okay?” Bryce says.

“Holding you to it,” Summers says.

*

“I think I would have preferred you skipping out,” Summers sighs a month later.

“I dunno, I think it worked out okay,” Bryce says.


	122. Matt/Aaron, Tremblay; beware

“I want to warn you about Tremblay,” Matt says. 

Matt had stupidly allowed Trembs and his girlfriend to come out with them to the Beyonce concert Aaron had come up to Toronto for (“I came to see you,” Aaron said, when Matt said it aloud, and Matt believes him, but he also thinks it was a little bit for Beyonce), then even more stupidly left Trembs and Aaron supervised only by Trembs’ girlfriend while he went to grab everyone something to drink. 

“I couldn’t stop him,” Michelle says apologetically when he returns, which is how he finds out Trembs invited Aaron to party with the Leafs after the game on Saturday, one of Trembs’ ‘win or lose, you fuckers are coming out’ ones, and Aaron had agreed.

Saturday morning is probably well past the time he should have issued this warning, but he wants to make sure it’s fresh in Aaron’s mind.

“You warned me about Tremblay like five times before I met him, and he’s been  _fine_ ,” Aaron says.

Fine to  _Aaron_ , maybe, Matt admits he’s on his best behaviour in front of him, but behind Aaron’s back? The worst. Chirping at max level. Matt doesn’t know why he’s friends with the fucker.

“Trembs is different, when we go out,” Matt says. “Like. Don’t drink anything he gives you.”

“Are you warning me your teammate is going to  _roofie_ me?” Aaron asks incredulously.

“No!” Matt says. “Just…it’ll be like, half alcohol and half sugar and then you blink and you’re dancing wearing a feather boa.”

Aaron rolls onto his stomach to laugh into his pillow. “Is this something you have personal experience with?” Aaron asks, mock serious, when he’s quit laughing, but it’s ruined by the quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I was an innocent rookie,” Matt says. “I didn’t know any better.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” Aaron says, leaning over to press a kiss to the corner of Matt’s mouth, the exact same place that smile of Aaron’s always pops up.

“I didn’t—” A peck on the mouth. “Even know—” Another. “I was gay,” Matt finishes, scowling until Aaron kisses him properly. It fades pretty fast after that.

“Tremblay, sugary drinks and dancing in feather boas made you gay?” Aaron asks, sounding like he’s laughing at him.

“I didn’t say that,” Matt scowls.

“I’m already pretty gay,” Aaron says. “I’m not afraid of Marc Tremblay.”

“Famous last words,” Matt says.

*

“You fucking ready?” Trembs asks him during pregame, and Matt doesn’t think he’s asking if he’s ready for the Sabres.

“Why do you want me to get dumped?” Matt sighs.

“Psh, dude went to college in _California._ Plus I’ve seen how the Jays get the second they hit postseason,” Trembs says, all disgust, like the Expos wouldn’t do the same if they were actually good right now.

Fuck, Matt’s defending the Blue Jays in his head. Defending Aaron’s one thing, but  _all of them_? The ones Matt’s met, he’s liked just fine, but  _still._

“Dude’s  _from_  California,” Matt says, latching on the one thing that doesn’t involve stepping up for the Jays.

“Right?” Trembs asks, which is when Matt realises he’s been set up. “He’s got the whole laidback vibe. It’ll be fine.”

*

Thankfully they’ve got a VIP room for the ‘drink, win or lose’ night. Matt has very little faith in this team to avoid making asses of themselves in public, with Tremblay as a gleeful example, but he’d prefer not to drag Aaron into that.

It was a loss, and to an opponent who’s not a whole lot better than them, so Matt’s not in a super drinking mode, though you couldn’t tell they lost from a lot of the other Leafs. Aaron meets up with him after the game, looking good in a soft, Leafs blue sweater, better than the night that’s probably coming deserves.

Matt warns him one last time for good measure, once they’re inside and have drinks in hand, beer for Matt, vodka soda for Aaron.

“I like that you think I’m a total innocent,” Aaron says, sounding amused.

“I’m not saying that, I’m just—” Matt says.

“I went to college in  _California_ , Matt,” Aaron says, hip lightly knocking against his. Matt totally shouldn’t have told him about his conversation with Trembs.

“Drink,” Trembs says, pressing two glasses into their free hands.

“Smells okay,” Aaron says, after a theatrical sniff, then takes a sip. And another. Drinks it all, then drinks the one Matt’s refused to drink out of principle and also past experience.

“These things are fucking delicious,” he says. “And purple. How is it so purple?”

Matt pats his shoulder. “You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow,” he murmurs, which is again from past experience.

“What?” Aaron asks.

“Nothing,” Matt says. “What?”

“Drinks!” Trembs says, gleefully on cue, and Matt sticks to beer while Aaron continues to enjoy his purple ‘so purple!’ drinks.

There isn’t any dancing with a boa prop, which Matt is super thankful for, but toward the end of the night Aaron gets into a very earnest conversation with Dylan’s also trashed fiancee about quinoa, leaning heavily on Matt’s shoulder while Dylan and Matt converse in a series of raised eyebrows and eventually start talking about the game, because quinoa is apparently a subject that deserves a lot of discussion.

“How’re you feeling?” Tremblay asks Aaron, accosting them when they’re heading out the door. Aaron’s still protesting, because apparently him and Dylan’s fiancee have some things to work out, but Dylan and Matt have decided via eyebrows it might be time to head home.

“Great!” Aaron says.

“I hate you so much,” Matt tells Trembs.

“But Aaron feels great!” Tremblay says, with the evillest grin in the world. “How great do you feel, Aaron?”

“So great,” Aaron says enthusiastically, and Matt stares Trembs down as he gets his boyfriend outside.

Trembs just grins back, a little drunk and so, so evil.

*

“I want to die,” Aaron groans the next morning.

“I warned you,” Matt says. “I have zero sympathy for you right now. You drank the Tremblay drinks. I told you not to drink the Tremblay drinks.”

“Matt please get me water something died in my mouth,” Aaron whimpers.

“Zero sympathy,” Matt repeats, but goes to get him some water, because Aaron’s technically a guest and Matt’s grandma would wallop him if she knew he withheld water to prove a point. He brings some painkillers too, because he’s a good boyfriend.

Aaron grasps his wrist when he returns. “You were right about Tremblay,” he mumbles.

“I know, babe,” Matt says, helping Aaron sit up. “I don’t mean to say ‘I told—”

“I’m already hearing ‘I told you so’,” Aaron complains.

“Good,” Matt says.


	123. Robbie/Georgie; study break

Robbie doesn’t know if this makes him a bad boyfriend, but he can’t tell Georgie apart from his brothers. Like obviously he can now, Georgie’s the hot one and the one who isn’t in the grip of puberty, occasional stress breakout or not. He’s also spent enough time looking at Georgie’s perfect, perfect face to easily see the differences, like how William’s eyes are lighter, or Dicky has more freckles.

But like, baby Dineens? No way. It’s super easy with the ones they’re all in, because it isn’t much of a stretch to go with ‘the biggest one, that is my man when he was but a lad’, but the Dineens’ photo albums aren’t in any order Robbie can figure out, definitely not chronological, and while some of the photos have the handy date stamp on the bottom that makes it pretty easy to figure out if it’s Georgie or not, he’s stuck guessing on the rest.

“Is this you?” Robbie asks, handing over a picture of a scrunch faced toddler with chocolate (Robbie hopes it’s chocolate) on his face to Georgie. Georgie looks up from his textbook, which he’s been balancing on Robbie’s shins, studying for the test he has next week while Robbie entertains himself with the ‘which Dineen is which’ game.

“Will,” Georgie says, looking back down at his book. “Why do you want to know?”

Oh good, Robbie doesn’t have to think that scrunched up face is cute. Though he kind of does, actually, thinking of the fairly similar one William makes now when he loses at video games, all sulky teenager.

“Just wanted to make sure I didn’t call you funny looking,” Robbie says. 

“Hey,” Georgie says, looking up again. “Will’s not funny looking.”

“I think that expression stuck,” Robbie says.

“It did not stick,” Georgie says.

“Look at it,” Robbie says, waving the photo emphatically, and he can see the flash of a smile before Georgie smothers it.

“It didn’t stick,” Georgie insists.

“You didn’t see this earlier today?” Robbie asks. “Maybe after I kicked his ass at FIFA?”

“It’s not nice to beat him at FIFA,” Georgie says. Robbie knows. Georgie already told him this. Something about his poor fragile teenage ego and needing to be the undisputed best at soccer. Which he totally is, he could kick Robbie’s ass in a game of pick up, but nobody beats Robbie at video games. “And it’s extra uncool to treat it like you just beat him in the World Cup.”

“You’re right, I only won the FA Cup,” Robbie says.

“The noogies were unnecessary,” Georgie says, gently knocking his textbook against Robbie’s shins.

“It’s the least a Chelsea fan deserves,” Robbie says. “Man U, baby.”

“Uh huh,” Georgie says, then, “C’mere.”

“You’re supposed to be studying,” Robbie says, but grabs Georgie’s textbook, putting it beside the albums, before he shifts to straddle Georgie’s lap.

“Hi,” Georgie says, grinning up at him.

“Study break?” Robbie asks.

“Just for a minute,” Georgie murmurs against Robbie’s mouth when Robbie leans down to kiss him.

“Guys, mom was wondering if—” William says, then, “Not on the baby pictures!”, slapping his hands over his eyes and promptly running into the doorway and landing on his ass in his hurry to blindly escape.

“Okay, Will?” Georgie asks, while Robbie muffles his laughter in Georgie’s shoulder.

“I hate both of you,” William says, from the direction of the floor.

“The least a Chelsea fan deserves,” Robbie says again, and Georgie doesn’t protect him at all when William gets up to return the noogies plus interest.


	124. Hank/Jordan, Lindsay; got your back

Hank isn’t particularly interested in going to the All-Star game, but Jordan’s playing in it. That might be something to brush off, because it’s hardly his first, but it’s in Winnipeg, so Hank doesn’t even have the excuse of not being able to travel, and Lindsay and her partner and daughter are there, so Hank can’t say it’s awkward to go alone, though he’s sure Jordan would mention the fact he has at least a half dozen family members who’d be happy to go with him, even if she wasn’t there.

“You look so uncomfortable,” Lindsay says.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Hank says. “I’m just—” He’s uncomfortable.

“You’re not going to be recognised,” Lindsay says, sounding amused. “Well. At least by fans. Fifty-fifty chance one of those dudes has a grudge against you.”

“Oh, I’d say it’s higher than that,” Hank says.

He isn’t recognised, because he stays in the stands, where it’s safe, and waits outside while Lindsay retrieves Jordan for dinner. “I don’t have that long,” Jordan says apologetically, once they’ve found a restaurant far enough to avoid people who went to the skills competition. “Plans for tonight I can’t skip.”

“Drinking, you mean,” Lindsay says.

“You’re welcome to come,” Jordan says, then, to Hank, “You too.”

“I mean, Graham can handle Gracie for the night,” Lindsay says, then looks over at Hank.

“I—” Hank says, and almost manages to say he’s uncomfortable before Jordan looks at him too, and he’s got two sets of Davies eyes on him.

“You can protect me from drunk idiot players hitting on me while Jordy does his A stuff,” Lindsay says.

“Does that happen a lot?” Hank asks.

“Yes,” they both chorus.

Hank tells himself he goes because he won’t have much more chances to see Jordan, over the weekend, but honestly, he was not capable of withstanding a combined Davies look.

“I feel like you’re about to cringe against the wall and hide there for the rest of the night,” Lindsay says, then grabs his hand and drags him inside. “C’mon, I’ll protect you.”

“I’ll use you as a human shield,” Hank says.

“I did not agree to that,” Lindsay says, but she’s grinning, and the first time someone seems to recognise him she swiftly brings his attention to her. She’s hit on more than once, but Hank finds a flat ref look works better off the ice than it does on it.

“Good team,” Lindsay says, and Hank has to agree.


	125. Gérard/Sven/Yvette, lil Gerard; Sundays

Sundays are lazy, or as lazy as they can possibly be. Obvious exceptions are made when Gérard and Sven are out of town, or if they have an early practice, but when they’re home, and able, Sundays are for sleeping in, breakfast in bed, refusing to change out of pyjamas before the afternoon.

Gérard doesn’t think it’d be possible with many other four year olds, but Gerard is shockingly low maintenance, at least in comparison to all the other four year olds Gérard’s known, and that’s a number of them, all his nieces and nephews past that age now. If Gerard wakes up before them, which he does almost every Sunday, he doesn’t wake them, instead contents himself in his room, playing with his toys or pretending to read his teddy bears a book, carefully making a circle of them around him, like a librarian during story time. Gérard has a feeling he’s a little more likely to follow in his mother’s footsteps than his father’s.

Gérard leans against his doorway. Sven and Yvette are still asleep, Yvette in a tiny ball and Sven taking up half the bed. Gérard woke up when Sven whacked him in the face, an unfortunately not uncommon occurrence. Gérard wonders if Yvette’s always slept like she does, or if it’s self-defence.

“Thomas the Tank Engine went on a journey,” Gerard says, which is surprisingly close to what the book reads, if Gérard recalls correctly.

“Hey kiddo,” Gérard says. “Want to help me make breakfast?”

Gerard looks up from his book. “Can we have pancakes?” he asks.

“We can,” Gérard says.

“Can I help you flip them?” Gerard asks.

“Absolutely,” Gérard says.

Gerard closes his book with a decisive snap, and gets up, but not before snatching his favourite teddy from the circle and bringing him along. Bernard the Bear supervises them while they make a mess of the kitchen, then supervises clean up, and joins them on the bed, Gerard leaping on Seven and giving him some much deserved karma while Gérard sets the tray on the bureau.

“Coffee?” Yvette asks, before she’s even fully awake, and reaches for Gerard just as instinctively, tucking him under her arm as she sits up, while Sven somehow slept through an elbow in the chest.

“We made pancakes because they’re your favourite,” Gerard says to Yvette in a whisper that’s louder than his speaking voice.

“Thank you loves,” she says. “Did you make coffee because it’s my favourite?”

Gerard wrinkles his nose. “Yes,” he says.

“Good boy,” she says, kissing Gerard’s temple, then the top of Bernard’s head when Gerard presents it to her.

“Where’s my kiss?” Gérard asks.

“Wherever my coffee is,” she says, and leans up to press a kiss to his cheek when he hands it to her.


	126. Hank/Jordan, Lindsay; meet the folks

It’s always one thing to meet the family — an admittedly terrifying thing, in Hank’s experience — but he thinks it might be a whole other thing to meet the twin. He should be a little less concerned than about meeting Jordan’s parents, which he hasn’t yet, and he is, he thinks, because there’s always a part of him that holds on to the fear he used to feel as a kid interacting with friends’ parents, the awkwardness. 

Never mind that he’s older than some of those parents were now, and the closest thing to a ‘meet the parents’ situation he dealt with in high school was awkwardly listening to the parents of his prom date tell them not to have sex while she struggled not to start laughing, there’s still a part of him that’s grateful it’s not the parents, at least not yet.

But there’s a bigger part of him that knows that when it comes down to it, her opinion of him is more important. Hank doesn’t know if that’s all twins, or specific to them, but there’s no one Jordan talks about more, except, maybe, his niece, and those stories are inevitably about her as well. Her opinion means a lot to Jordan, which means a lot of pressure.

“Nervous?” Jordan asks on the ride there. “You’re jiggling your knee.”

“Sorry,” Hank says, and tries to stop.

“I’d say she’s nice—” Jordan says.

“But you’ve told me way too many stories about her for me to believe that?” Hank asks.

“Basically,” Jordan grins. “Wouldn’t want to lie to you.”

“Appreciate it,” Hank says.

Hank recognises Lindsay immediately when they arrive, less because of the time he’d met her briefly, years before, and more because they really do look like twins: Lindsay is about as gorgeous as Jordan is, if not more so, seems to light the place up.

Lindsay is apparently not in agreement, because the first thing she says, after hello, “I’ve seen hotter refs,” after looking him up and down.

Jordan sputters. “You have not!” he says.

“I probably haven’t,” she says. “Though no offence, but you don’t have a lot of competition on that front.”

“None taken,” Hank says.

“Nice to finally meet the guy my brother’s been stupid over for years,” Lindsay says, and when Jordan starts sputtering more, Hank thinks he might actually enjoy this.


	127. Quincys, Caps; F-M-K

Leo would just like to say he isn’t actually the one to bring the subject up. That’s Lea, after they escape round seventeen of ‘The Quincy family makes fun of Dylan for marrying a woman with the practically the same name as his brother’. Leo found the first ten rounds or so funny, but now he’s considering changing his name if it means they’ll pick on Dylan a little more creatively. Not like it’s hard.

Maybe they’ll quit if he starts going by his actual name. Of course, he’ll never get laid again if he goes by Leonard. Can’t pull off Leonardo, either. It’s a dilemma.

Leo’s pretty sure she just brings it up to make Dylan groan, which he absolutely does, knocking his head back against the wall when Lea says, “Hottest Cap. Go.”

“See, you’re just going to say Dylan, and then I’m going to have to make fun of you for your terrible taste,” Leo says.

“You  _look_  like me,” Dylan says.

“Not  _that_ much like you,” Leo says.

Lea looks considering. “Fuck-Marry-Kill,” she says.

“Now we’ve got a deal,” Leo says.

“No we don’t,” Dylan — there is no other word for it, he’s whining.

“The rookies,” Lea says. “What do you call them, Dylan?”

“I’m not participating in this,” Dylan says, then, because he’s wired to be unable to answer a question, “Class of Canadiana. And Lombardi, so Masshole. That’s four, though.”

“Just stick to the Canadians?” Lea suggests.

“They’re babies,” Leo complains.

“You try to kill Crane he’ll kill you first,” Dylan says. “For the record.”

“I’m not actually going to kill your back-up goalie,” Leo says. “I think he’s a ‘marry’ anyway.”

Dylan laughs. “He’s even more likely to kill you that way.”

“I’ll risk it,” Leo says.

“Fuck?” Lea asks.

“Who’s the D-man?” Leo asks.

“Whelan, if we’re keeping it Canadian,” Dylan says.

“Him,” Leo asks.

“You can’t kill Matthews,” Dylan protests.

“Why not?” Leo asks.

“Because you can’t,” Dylan says.

“You pick your own dude to kill, I’m killing Matthews,” Leo says.

Dylan frowns at him. “I’m marrying Matthews,” he says.

“You do that, Dyl,” Leo says.

*

It becomes a bit of a tradition, in the end, a much more interesting way to make Dylan regret ever coming to visit. They have to branch out past the Caps, eventually, and Leo finds himself cataloguing opponents when he catches a Caps game. Anyone who throws a dirty hit is automatically a kill, no matter how he looks.

“Fuck-Marry-Kill,” Leo says, after Christmas dinner and, more importantly, after a few drinks, and Lea straightens up excitedly. “New Caps edition.”

“Which ones?” Dylan asks, instead of complaining. Leo guesses he’s gotten resigned to it.

“Chapman, Kurmazov,” Leo says. “Who’s the one you got a few weeks ago?”

“Dineen,” Dylan says.

“He’s hot,” Leo says. “And Chapman, fuck.”

“What happened to ‘they’re babies’?” Dylan — he’s whining again.

“They’re in their twenties, no shame,” Leo says.

“I’m marrying Kurmazov,” Lea announces.

“That’s a good choice,” Dylan says grudgingly.

“So it’s unanimous for marrying Kurmazov?” Leo says.

“I thought you said Dineen and Chapman were hot,” Dylan says.

“I did,” Leo says. “But Kurmazov, man. Guy looks like he knows what to  _do_ with those hands. I’d marry the shit out of that.”

“Right?” Lea asks.

“I hate you both,” Dylan mutters. “A lot. For the record.”

Leo shrugs, and Lea shrugs back.

“Like twins!” mom calls across the room, and so begins round twenty of laughing about the similarity of their names.

“Can I nominate myself as the Cap to kill?” Dylan mutters.

“I’ll allow it,” Leo says.


	128. Robbie, David; fatherhood

The dads’ trip is a nice idea in theory, but in practice it’s a can of fucking worms. Robbie hates it. Moms’ trip, no worries, his mom is there for that shit, but dads’ trip? Papa’s got to work. There are always dudes that stand out, whether their dads are thousands of fucking miles away, or too busy working to come, or whatever. Robbie hates it.

David’s dad doesn’t show, which would be whatever, except David’s mom was nowhere to be seen, during the moms’ trip, and Robbie gets that she’s important or whatever, but when his dad isn’t showing either, Robbie feels shitty for him. Like, fuck, almost everyone’s dad is here, and there are no Chapmans alongside the no Lombardis in the building.

“Sucks,” Robbie says.

“Pardon?” David asks.

“Sucks, no dads, or whatever,” Robbie says. “Guess your dad’s the busy and important kind too?”

“Sure,” David says, and Kurmazov’s glower, behind him, means it’s something he should drop.

They’re not alone when it comes to absent dads, but they’re the only two whose dads actually reside on the continent. Fuck, Kuramzov’s dad is there, though Robbie’s pretty sure Russia is not exactly close, just according to maps.

“What’d your dad say?” Robbie asks David, because he kind of wants company. He gets that his father has shit to do, but it still stings.

“I didn’t ask him,” David says.

“What, seriously?” Robbie asks, before his head catches up to his brain. “I mean,” he says. “Better off without him?” he tries.

“Better off without him,” David says quietly, and Robbie thinks it’s time to give the dude a hug, so that hug is fucking happening.

“Better off without him,” Robbie repeats, with David’s face in his shoulder, and he’s pretty sure David nods in response.


	129. Maria/Oleg, David; adoption

Oleg has always wanted a boy. He’s never been disappointed by their girls, never been less than enchanted by them, is always willing to involve himself in ways that lesser fathers would deem womanly or something foolish: played Barbies, let them style his hair, barrettes and all, watched Frozen more times than she was able to stomach. He loves them with a level of passion Maria’s never seen from him outside of hockey, outside of herself, remembering Oleg at seventeen, shivering outside her window when she’d been grounded because it was the only place he could see her outside of in the classroom, constantly glancing over at the front door, ready to make a break for it if her father saw he was there.

He still acts like that when they visit her parents, cordial and attentive, the best son-in-law he can be, and also like he’s prepared to grab the girls and run if her father looks at him the wrong way. Her father thinks it’s hilarious.

Oleg has always wanted a boy, but he’s accepted the fact that isn’t something that will happen. Or at least Maria thought he had.

“Is this an attempt to adopt a son, or an attempt to replace Dmitry with someone a little more like you?” Maria asks, once David has become a regular presence at their dinner table, Tatiana’s new favorite — brother? Uncle? Maria cannot be sure. “Should the girls call him brother or uncle?” she asks.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Oleg says, but Maria watches the way he is with David, as patient as he is with the girls and no one else, watches the way David straightens up, just a little, whenever Oleg offers the slightest bit of praise.

Brother, she decides, and smooths down Tatiana’s hair, which is escaping her braid, tucks a tag sticking up from the back of David’s shirt back under.

“Tag,” she says, when David looks at her questioningly.

“Thanks,” he says, a little shy, and she pretends not to notice the smile Oleg’s turned her way, as hopeful as the ones when they were still practically children themselves, far younger than David, though it’s hard to believe it, now.

“Well, you always wanted a boy,” Maria says later that night, and Oleg doesn’t bother to deny it, just presses a kiss to her temple that lingers as long as his smile does.


	130. Georgie, Jake, Caps; unsportsmanlike

Georgie likes Jake, and he’s a great guy, but on the ice he’s a total asshole.

None of them are happy when the Panthers score after a tripping call on Elliott that upon replay doesn’t make contact with Jake. They didn’t call Jake for embellishment, and the Panthers get a power play they don’t deserve, which would be bad enough of Elliott wasn’t one of their best forwards on the PK, and if the Panthers didn’t score. Jake assists on it, which adds insult to injury, and more than a few guys are gunning for him now, judging by talk during the intermission.

“Your — Lourdes is a dick,” Robbie says, elbowing Chaps.

David scowls, but doesn’t disagree.

If the Caps are gunning for him, so are the refs, who clearly realized that trip wasn’t actually a trip. Georgie would appreciate it, but after some soft calls, the Panthers start playing for blood, and it caps off with a hit by Jake on Elliott that leaves him a little stunned looking. Robbie looks like he’s about to go right after him, size be damned, and Georgie really doesn’t want that to happen, because David’s friend or not, no way Jake will go easy on him. Georgie’s seen him beat up his  _own_  friends.

You can add Georgie to that list, when he steps in before Robbie can. He holds his own, at least, though it’s not a fight he can say he wins, and when he gets back to the bench they have to glue him up before he goes back on.

“Fucking asshole,” Robbie mutters, and it’s a toss-up whether he’s talking about Jake boarding Elliott or Georgie taking away his chance to get beat up.

“You okay?” David asks, after the game. Georgie gives him a thumbs up, but David doesn’t look relieved. “Was that about something?” David asks, then goes red, and it actually takes a second to realize what he’s talking about, it’s been so long since either of them spoke about it, got filed away in Georgie’s brain in ‘things to never think about’, a place that’s gotten a little too crowded.

“Just stepped in before Robbie broke his face on Jake’s fist,” Georgie says. “Nothing else.”

“Jake wouldn’t do that,” David says confidently. That’s love right there. Not true at all, but love.

Jake’s sent him a text,  _sry abt punching u :( meet me?_. Georgie’s got no other plans,  so he goes to meet Jake a safe distance from the visitor’s dressing room. Elliott’s still a little woozy, and Georgie doesn’t trust Robbie not to attack on sight, verbally at minimum.

“Sorry about your face, bud,” Jake says. “Buy you a drink to make up for it?”

“Don’t want to cut in on your David time or anything,” Georgie says. “Unless he’s mad at you?” Georgie could see that if it was Robbie or Oleg or Rafael, not really so much him, but maybe it was the hit on Elliott.

“Him and Volkie need a bro-moment,” Jake says. “I’m meeting up with him after.”

“By meeting up you mean—” Georgie says, and laughs when Jake whacks him, a whole lot gentler than he did on the ice. “Buy me two drinks,” Georgie says. “For my two stitches.”

“Two stitches is barely anything,” Jake says, but he looks guilty. “How’s Matthews?”

“Bit banged up,” Georgie says, and Jake looks guiltier. “C’mon slugger, let’s get my two drinks,” Georgie says, throwing an arm around Jake’s shoulder, and a passing Panther he vaguely recognizes gives them a longsuffering look.

“Stop befriending your victims!” the guy yells.

“He was my friend before he was my victim!” Jake yells back.

“That is not better, Cap!” the guy yells, and Georgie starts laughing, Jake not far behind.


	131. Liam/Mike; teamwork

“I’m in a club!” Liam announces when Mike gets home. Not hello, how was your mom, Mike, but ‘I’m in a club!’, standing in the front hall when he got in the door like he heard Mike’s car and then came running to tell him.

“Do I want to know?” Mike asks as he takes off his coat.

“Probably not,” Liam says, but then tells him anyway, because of course he does. It’s an extended enough story that Mike gets the rest of his gear off, gets a glass of water, and takes a seat on the couch before it wraps up, Liam following him all the while.

“North Star Negotiators,” Mike repeats.

“Catchy, huh?” Liam asks, and then doesn’t wait for an answer, just sits down beside him — or, more on him, actually, a heavy, chatty blanket.

“Did you actually do anything today other than scheme?” Mike asks.

“I finished the cookies?” Liam says.

Mike stares. “There were at least ten left,” he says. 

“I had help,” Liam says. “Oh! And I finished the crossword.”

“I told you, using the internet is cheating,” Mike says.

“I didn’t!” Liam says.

Mike gives him a skeptical look.

“Victor couldn’t resist showing off,” Liam says. “Teamwork isn’t cheating, is it?”

Mike would have said yes a year ago but considering him and Liam have been doing that exact thing for the past few months — Liam’s getting surprisingly adept — he supposes that would make him a hypocrite now.

“You know you can’t make everything work out the way you want it to just by being stubborn at it,” Mike says instead. “Catchy name or not.”

“You think it’s catchy,” Liam gloats. “Anyway, it worked on you,” he adds, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of Mike’s mouth before he can protest either of his statements. “And you’re as stubborn as I am, so that’s bonus points.”

“No one is as stubborn as you are,” Mike mutters.

“Are you trying to prove you’re less stubborn than me by being stubborn about it?” Liam asks. “Really, Mike?”

“Fuck off,” Mike says, and when Liam kisses him again he’s smiling. 


	132. Jaya, Riley Lapointes; heatwave

Jaya likes Charlie’s house a lot. It’s gorgeous and big, but not like an obnoxious mansion, even though Charlie’s dads could definitely afford one. It’s the kind of old where they spent a good amount of time searching for a secret passage when Jaya started coming over to hang out, because it wasn’t a ridiculous idea that it might have one, though all they found was an attic, which was dusty and empty. There’s a big driveway to play hockey, and a big backyard to kick a soccer ball around while Leon and Marc read in the solarium and Dan grills vegetable skewers, chicken for him and Marc and Leon, black bean burgers for Jaya and Charlie, who’s recently decided she’s going vegetarian. Jaya’s not holding her breath on it lasting.

Except no one’s playing hockey in the driveway today, and no one’s kicking a ball around or grilling, because it’s too hot. Jaya’s apartment has a wall unit for AC, but it’s weak, doesn’t really reach beyond the living room, where they’ve all been congregating, to the point Jaya and Aditi spent half an hour arguing who got to sleep on the couch before they were both banished to the floor when their mom got home and took it for herself.

Charlie’s place is obviously a step up from their sweltering apartment, especially because their windows west, so in the afternoon it feels like they’re ants beneath a magnifying glass. Except while Charlie’s house is cool, it’s not actually  _cool,_  thanks to how old it is. They have AC but it’s unpredictable; there are certain places that almost hit okay, you walk into the next room and into an oven. Charlie’s room is one of those places, so they’re in the basement, faces pressed to the cold tile, and complaining. Well, Charlie is. It seems like too much energy to expend for Jaya.

“Hey kiddos,” Dan says. “Having fun, uh. Lying on the floor?”

“Leave us to die,” Charlie says.

Jaya grunts agreement.

“Lee and I need to get out of here. I can drive you to the pool, if you want,” Dan says.

“To die,” Charlie repeats.

“Maybe the movies?” Dan says. “The mall? Good AC there.”

“You heard me,” Charlie says.

“I’ll feel like an awful father if I leave my daughter and her best friend lying on the floor,” Dan says. “Do it for my conscience.”

Charlie makes a dismissive noise.

Dan heads upstairs, but comes back down a minute later. “Okay, up,” he says.

“Nope,” Charlie says.

“I have popsicles,” Dan says.

“We’re not kids, dad,” Charlie says, but she sounds unsure.

Jaya could go for a popsicle, honestly.

“Grape and cherry,” Dan says, and Charlie sighs and heaves herself up, grabbing the cherry before giving Jaya a hand up.

It’s hotter up here. Heat rises and all that. But Jaya can’t eat a popsicle with her face plastered to the floor.

“Up,” Dan says, gently pushing them in the direction of the stairs, then up them, where it’s even hotter, then outside, which is actively awful. Leon’s sitting in the backseat of the car with a popsicle of his own, and it’s like stepping into a freezer in comparison to outside, AC on full blast.

“Movies,” Dan says firmly, and neither of them argue.


	133. Allie, David/Jake; secret weapon

It’s not like Allie isn’t aware David loves Jake. Like first off, he spends Christmas and Jake’s birthday with them, and no one goes to someone else’s family for Christmas if they aren’t pretty into them, especially not David, though he has gotten a little more comfortable with them, by which Allie means he only looks moderately petrified every time he arrives, rather than mostly mute with fear.

He’s still really quiet with Allie and Nat and mom, especially since mom has a tendency to stumble on conversation topics that make Jake give her crazy ‘mom STOP’ eyes, but apparently dad’s had some worthwhile conversations with him. Dad’s wording, not Allie’s. Maybe not surprising, considering Jake’s the one most like dad, but Allie’s a little annoyed. You’d think after a few Christmases she could say she’s talked to David for more than a few sentences, and yet. Allie has no idea how Jake gets words out of him. Like, how do they even communicate well enough to stay together long distance? Allie is baffled.

“He’s shy,” mom says, when Allie complains, giving her a disapproving look, like she’s not the one who always gets Jake’s crazy eyes. Okay, Allie gets them too, sometimes, but between her and Nat and mom, she definitely gets them the least.

Allie gets her chance for a ‘worthwhile conversation’ when mom and Nat and Jake ran out to grab last minute Christmas stuff. David seemed about as interested as going to a mall on Christmas Eve as Allie, which is to say, like he’d rather die first, so they’re watching The Grinch Who Stole Christmas while dad’s making something smell awesome in the kitchen.

The problem with small talk is Allie isn’t very good at it, and so many of the polite go tos are Jake crazy eye territory. No talk about his family, not the hockey season, even though the Caps are kicking ass and taking names, can’t compare Christmas traditions or anything. That leaves her basically the weather and her dad’s cooking. David agrees that it is cold out and also agrees that the kitchen smells amazing and dinner’s going to be good, and then Allie’s totally stuck again. 

She should have asked her dad what they talked about. Maybe he did that dad thing where he sat quietly until you felt the need to tell him things. Allie tries it for a good ten minutes, but it just ends up being them watching the movie. Makes sense. Quiet waiting doesn’t really work when you’re watching a movie, in hindsight. 

Allie has tried and failed to get more than a sentence out of David two more times when the mall squad returns (”Jim Carrey’s Canadian, right?” which in her experience gets Canadians listing every other Canadian celebrity ever, but just gets a “Yeah” from David, and “Going to Dallas after Christmas?” which she doesn’t think quite counts as hockey talk, but ended up just being more weather talk. Dallas is warmer than Detroit or Washington. Fun chat.).

“What’re we watching?” Jake asks, plopping between them on the couch, like he didn’t watch it basically on repeat during Christmas from the ages of nine through twelve.

“The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” David says dutifully, when Allie refuses to humor his not-actually-a-question.

“Awesome,” Jake says. “This the one with Jim Carrey?” Then at David’s nod, “I was like obsessed with this when it came out, I would watch it and then rewind it like, right after, and I totally killed the VHS and my mom wouldn’t get me another and—”

David’s not watching the movie anymore, eyes trained on Jake, like he hasn’t learned how to block out Jake babble yet. Except maybe he doesn’t want to, his mouth curled up in the edge of a smile, and while Jake talks about buying the DVD with his allowance and Nat and Allie scratching it on purpose — Allie has to step in there, because lies and slander — David’s smile widens, and when Jake reaches an arm out, he tucks himself in it, cheek pressed to Jake’s shoulder.

Oh, Jake just talks him to death. Allie can do that! Allie’s great at that!

*

“It was nice to see you getting along so well with David,” mom says after David and Jake fly out. She sounds jealous. Sucks to be her, no way Allie’s spilling her secret weapon.


	134. Roman (Roman/Harry, Harry/Evan, Roman/Evan? Dammit. ALL PERMUTATIONS.); after

Assorted Thoughts Roman Novák Absolutely Did Not Have After Harry Left And That Did Not Make Sleeping Hard (heh):

Thinking about Harry and Connie together had always been something he flinched away from, something sharp, and it’s still sharp, there’s still a shard of something honed to a razor point about it, but he can’t stop thinking about it now, less like picking at a wound and more like scratching an itch. He’s not proud.

Harry seems like the kind of dude who takes porn less as entertainment and more as an instruction manual. Roman can’t see Connie going along with it, though, a hand fisted in his hair, ‘suck it, bitch’, Harry shoving himself down his throat, like it’s some victory if he chokes, if tears come to his eyes. But he doesn’t seem — Roman’s been worried, so worried, that Connie’s reluctance to ask for what he wants would be not only extended to sex, but amplified during, that he wouldn’t say if he liked something, that he didn’t like something else, worse, if something made him uncomfortable, or hurt, and he just endured it, tried to hide that he felt anything other than good. Or, alternate thought, that maybe he likes it, likes Harry bossing him around, or thinks that’s the way it should be, or —  

Or maybe it isn’t like that at all. Roman doesn’t know how much experience Harry has with guys, and never saw him picking up last season, not guys or girls. Maybe it’s tentative, both of them figuring out what they like, not just from the other but in general, seeking constant validation — do you like a hard grip, or something softer? Is a touch along your ribs going to get a shudder or make you laugh? Tentative, but not gentle. Roman’s seen the marks. If Connie doesn’t like getting bitten, he definitely hasn’t told Harry that.

Maybe he does, though. Maybe he wants it, wants Harry to leave marks, maybe even darker, like the ones Fitzy wears, the ones he got teased about, but not for very long, because it isn’t any fun to tease someone who isn’t embarrassed about it, who’ll tell you all about how he got them until you’re the one embarrassed. Not that Roman ever teased him for them. None of his business then, and even more now that he knows who’s leaving them, has met the guy, so he’s probably more embarrassed, seeing them, than Fitzy is, wearing them like a badge of honor. 

Connie would be embarrassed, though. Connie would burn up if anyone mentioned them, and Roman doesn’t know if the guys are keeping quiet because they know that, because it isn’t fun teasing him, feels like bullying, or if they just haven’t been looking as closely as Roman has, haven’t seen the smudge of fingers, the spot by his collar bone where Harry sucked, or bit, maybe purposeful, maybe just overwhelmed, muffling a cry against Connie’s skin, thighs tight around the sharp cut of Connie’s hips. They’d splay wide around Roman, Connie so much narrower than Roman is, and Harry could bite as hard as he wanted. Roman’s skin doesn’t mark up easy. Half the time, you can’t see the violence done at all, and this would be the welcome sort, something he can’t see Connie doing, but Harry, tongue as sharp as his teeth, using them both, merciless —

Fuck.


	135. Vinny/Tony; competition

Thomas thinks this might actually be the very first time he’s ever woken up before Anton, with the exception of when Anton’s been sick.

Thomas feels his forehead. It seems like a normal temperature.

“What are you doing?” Anton groans, eyes screwed shut.

“Are you sick?” Thomas asks.

Anton frowns, then opens his eyes. “No?” he says.

“Oh, good,” Thomas says. “I woke up before you!”

“Congratulations,” Anton says, then rolls over to bury his face in his pillow. That lasts about a second before he’s sitting upright. “Are we late for something?”

“Hey,” Thomas says, then double-checks the clock, even though he checked it a minute ago. “Your alarm goes off in four minutes.”

Anton crumples back into sleep-mode, before he gives Thomas a suspicious look. “Why are you awake?” he asks, which is honestly a very good question, because when Thomas does wake to Anton’s alarm, it’s long enough to acknowledge Anton’s lips pressed to his cheek, or his forehead, before falling back asleep until his own alarm goes.

“So I could beat you,” Thomas decides.

“Beat me some eggs,” Anton mutters, and then seems to fall back asleep all at once.

That’s not a bad idea. Breakfast, that is, even though Anton always eats after his morning jog. Still, Thomas has time to make a frittata, which is usually a day off specialty, and when Anton comes downstairs to investigate, maybe four whole minutes after his alarm goes off, Thomas gets his good morning kiss — to the back of his head, this morning — and Anton saying, “Frittata,” all excited sounding.

“Go jog,” Thomas says, and turns his head to catch another kiss, to the corner of his mouth. “I beat you!” he adds, triumphant, when  Anton’s too far from the kitchen to argue without backtracking.  


	136. Si/Seb; morning person

Simon would contend there is nothing more annoying than a morning person. Not someone who has to be up early, because lord knows that’s his daily life, but the sort of person who leaps out of bed, both feet on the floor, able to smile before a shower, or breakfast, or caffeine, or whatever non-morning people require to face the day. Simon’s all of the above.

“Good morning,” Seb chirps.

Simon groans into his pillow. Seb went to bed after him, embroiled in some ridiculous reality TV show he had to know the end of, and the man takes naps as part of his job. He should be exhausted. Simon is exhausted just listening to his existence.

“Good morning, grumpy,” Seb amends.

Simon groans louder.

“Coffee?” Seb says. He’s always spoken Simon’s language.

Simon turns his face to the side. “And toast,” he adds.

“Coffee and toast,” Seb says, and because he wouldn’t be Seb if he didn’t escalate. “And bacon. And eggs.”

Simon turns his face back into the pillow.

He wakes again to coffee and toast and bacon and eggs. Seb has to be at the airport for seven, and it’s Simon or a cab. He’s very seriously considering making Seb take a cab until he’s had the first cup of coffee.

“Did you sleep at all?” Simon asks.

“Four hours!” Seb says, like that’s something to be proud of instead of a nightmare scenario.

Simon grunts into his coffee. “When do we need to go?” he asks.

“Twenty five minutes,” Seb says. “Shower super hot?”

“Enough to scald you,” Simon agrees, and it’s ready when he’s finished eating, and they get out the door with two minutes to spare. It would have been ten, but Seb had forgotten his sunglasses, and his favourite shirt, and his passport. His  _passport._

Simon’s hair is still dripping when they reach the airport. “Thanks, love,” Seb says, and Simon would like to pretend the kiss pressed to his cheek isn’t worth the trouble, but it is.


	137. Mike/Liam; question

“Mike?” Liam complains. He hasn’t said anything other than Mike’s name, but Mike already knows it’s a complaint. It’s in the tone of his voice.

“What?” Mike asks, turning his glare from his bookkeeping to Liam. He actually enjoyed it before the glare of a computer screen gave him a headache, alongside the no income outside of investments — which he is not mentioning aloud, because Liam’s already outstubborned him over the majority of their bills, with the admittedly good reasoning that he makes millions of dollars a year, and if Mike complains, even idly, he’s afraid when Liam goes on a road trip, he’ll leave behind a giant check, comfortable knowing he’s too far away for Mike to yell at him.

“Rude,” Liam says. “No, ‘yes dear?’”

“Yes dear?” Mike asks dryly.

Liam shudders. “Weird when you say it,” he says. “Stepford Mike.”

“Darling,” Mike drawls.

“Stop it,” Liam says.

“Sweetheart,” Mike says. It’s surprisingly easy to say the words when the end result is Liam looking completely disturbed. Serves him right for the week he called Mike every baked good under the sun before Mike took him down for it when he had a few nights before his next game.

“Pudding,” he says. That was one of the ones in Liam’s arsenal.

Liam’s made it across the room during Mike’s salvo, and he claps a hand over Mike’s mouth.

Mike raises his eyebrows.

Liam drops his hand.

“I was saying something before you distracted me,” Liam says sulkily.

“What were you saying?” Mike asks. “Dear.”

“Please go back to calling me a brat,” Liam says. “Or shithead. Call me shithead.”

“I’ve never called you shithead,” Mike says. Little shit, yes, shithead, no. Liam’s a little shit, but he’s not a shithead. They’re different things. Mike never would have gotten involved with a shithead. Apparently the same is not true of little shits.

“Must’ve been one of the guys,” Liam murmurs. Mike imagines there is no shortage of people calling Liam something with the word ‘shit’ involved. Oddly, it makes him bristle. He’s  _Mike’s_  little shit, and fuck anyone who’d call him a shithead. “Oh! I remembered what I was saying!”

“Do tell,” Mike says. Liam gives him a challenging look, and Mike considers whether it’s worth it to get Liam’s sharp little teeth in his shoulder. Well. Would be far from the first time. “Darling.”

Liam goes for the bicep, which, unlike the shoulder, isn’t covered by cotton. Little fucking  _shit_.

“My mom’s coming over tomorrow, remember?” Mike asks conversationally, instead of ‘ow’, though seriously, his teeth are fucking sharp.

Liam quits biting. He’s still on a mad quest to be Mike’s mother’s best friend. Mike’s pretty damn sure she likes him, likes him a lot, and he’s let Liam know that, but it’s never enough. They need to be best buds. It’s faintly disturbing. On the other hand, Liam not only behaves in her presence, but also whenever she’s mentioned.

Liam pulls back and examines Mike’s arm, before patting it gently. “Won’t leave a mark,” he decides. He’d know. Kid can tell what’s going to be livid or fade overnight before it even begins to set in. Some kind of bruise whisperer. It’s like a super power, between his sex life and his career.

“We have got to train you to stop biting people,” Mike says, which sounds like the sort of shit you’d say to your poorly trained puppy. But nope. Liam Fitzgerald, everyone. Twenty-seven and digging his teeth in wherever he damn well pleases like a — well. Puppy still works, there. Mike’s not much of a dog person, but apparently he’s made an exception.

“I mostly bite you,” Liam says, and bats his lashes at him.

“Mostly,” Mike repeats.

“Mostly,” Liam agrees. “Not sexy biting, don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Mike says. “Except maybe worried your teammates aren’t all up on their rabies shots.”

Liam bites him again. On the shoulder this time, and lightly. Still worried about leaving a mark for Mike’s mom to see, apparently.

Mike pats his head, and Liam makes himself comfortable, draped half over Mike’s lap, nearly nudging Mike’s laptop onto the floor. Mike tucks it away, just to be safe, and Liam takes that as permission to continue to drape himself all over Mike. “Okay?” he asks, when he’s finished, though they’ve worked out a way for Mike to tell him if he’s not in any shape to take 170 pounds that doesn’t require him saying it or Liam getting rejected. He still checks. Mike alternately hates it and appreciates it. Last time, with Liam’s knee digging in somewhere in the vicinity of his liver? Pancreas? Spleen? it worked out okay, so Mike can handle it for now, even if it means he has to okay getting taken over.

“I was doing something,” Mike says, but the only move Liam makes is to make himself more comfortable.

“I had a question,” Liam says, face in Mike’s throat.

“You did, yes,” Mike says.

Liam’s quiet. 

“I don’t remember my question,” he mutters after a minute.

“What a shame,” Mike says, and runs a hand through Liam’s hair. Liam hums a little, nose digging into Mike’s neck, getting that little bit heavier now that he’s relaxing. 

“Don’t wanna go tomorrow,” Liam mumbles.

Mike doesn’t want him to either, though he’s not going to say it. Sixteen days, their longest road trip of the season, and Liam’s been anxious, clingy for the past couple days. Mike would have called him on it, but honestly, he hasn’t wanted to think about it any more than he has to, makes him feel like the kind of bereft fucking whatever who’d start marking down days on the calendar or some shit. Easier to ignore it.

“You’ll be back soon enough,” Mike says, presses a kiss to Liam’s temple.

“Oh!” Liam says, head popping up fast enough he nearly bangs it into Mike’s chin.

“Oh?” Mike asks, once he’s swerved to safety.

“I remembered my question!” Liam says. “Why do birds suddenly appear—”

Liam absolutely deserves the bite he gets for that one, though, unfortunately, he enjoys it as usual.


	138. Jake/David; Calder

Jake kind of figured winning the Calder would feel better than it does. Like, it’s been a dream of his since he was little, though not thought of as often as winning Gold or a Cup, or getting drafted first, which was kind of awkward too, in the end, and for the same reason. David.

David’s clearly pissed, and Jake’s not surprised. He should have won, honestly, if it was fair. Jake played pretty damn good, he knows he did, but he had these crap stretches where nothing would make contact with the net, everything whiffing, and David was good the whole time, never had those stretches, not once.

He’s pissed, and mean when Jake talks to him at the reception after. Jake honestly should leave him alone, he lost and he shouldn’t have and Jake’s the one who won, so obviously he’s not the person David wants to see right now. But David isn’t there with anyone, Jake didn’t see his family around anywhere, didn’t really see David talking to anyone, and when he reaches out, catches David’s sleeve for just a second before David jerks his hand away, David looks like he did the time he lost the gold medal game, like he wants to cry but he’s trying really hard not to. Jake can’t just leave him alone. He follows him out of the reception room, to the bank of elevators, where David’s standing with his hands pressed against his eyes, like he really is going to cry. Jake hurts just looking at him.

“It’s bullshit, okay?” Jake says. “Everyone knows you did better than me, you barely went a game without a point. It’s a bullshit award.”

“And yet you’re the one who won it,” David says, hands still over his face. He jerks a little when Jake takes his arm, but he doesn’t jerk away, which Jake thinks might be important.

“I would have voted for you,” Jake says. “And so would most of the guys in the league. They’re just reporters, David, they don’t know shit.”

The elevator opens, and David takes his hands down. His eyes are red, a little wet looking, and fuck, Jake’s never wanted to kiss him more, though obviously it’s not really the time or place. “Enjoy your party,” he snaps, pulling away from Jake and walking into the elevator, and Jake follows him in before he can stop himself.

“Which floor?” he asks.

David stares at him, doesn’t say anything, and the doors shut.

“Okay,” Jake says, when it becomes clear he isn’t going to tell him, and presses the button for his own floor. “I’m on the twelfth.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” David asks. He doesn’t sound angry, just confused.

Jake shrugs. “Hanging out with you,” he says.

“You just won the Calder,” David says, still confused sounding. “Your family is here.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow,” Jake says. And more importantly, they’re not alone.

“Coming?” Jake asks, when the doors open, and David does, follows Jake to his room.

Jake actually meant hanging out, he thinks, but David followed behind so close, like he’d get lost if he didn’t, all body heat in the cold air conditioning, and Jake just — wants. He wants David, and he wants to make David happy, or at least less sad, angry. Still, it isn’t the best idea, he knows that, knows that when David’s turning his face away before Jake can kiss him, and definitely knows that when he’s dropping to his knees, fingers finding David’s belt, half blind in the darkness of the room, the only light the strip below the window behind him.

“Don’t,” David says, and Jake stops, looks up at him, his face mostly shadow. “I want to fuck you.” David adds, quiet.

That’s never been anything Jake really wants, not the kind of thing you do with like, bros with benefits. Jake doesn’t know what he is to David, but he’s definitely not Jake’s bro. Jake doesn’t feel anything like he did with those guys around David. With them it’d been fun, casual, talk the game over, swap handies, whatever, chill night. Nothing about David is chill, not the way he is or the way he makes Jake feel.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” David repeats, like he didn’t expect that, like maybe he just said it to hear Jake tell him no. Jake doesn’t really want to do that. Like, pretty much ever. Even if it was something he wanted to say no to, which this isn’t.

Jake gets up, flipping on the lamp beside his bed, because it feels weird, turning on the overhead ones. He finds lube, condoms in his bag. He wasn’t really planning on using them — the condoms at least, he’s already used the lube to jerk off — but better safe than sorry, so.

David stares at Jake’s hand like the contents are about to bite him, wary.

“We don’t have to,” Jake says. “We could just hang, get room service, watch a movie or something.” That’s what he should have offered in the first place, definitely what they should be doing.

“No,” David says, sharp, like he’s insulted or something. “Just–just get on the bed.”

“Kay,” Jake says, shrugs his jacket off, his tie, something flaming hot in him at the way David watches him as he starts to unbutton his shirt, staring, honestly, before David looks away and takes his own suit jacket off, putting it down carefully, then his shirt, just as careful, smoothing his hand over each item. He’s slower than Jake, or would be if Jake didn’t end up staring himself. It’s summer, but you wouldn’t know it, with how pale he is under his clothes, as pale as he was during winter, lean, hard muscle, nipples tight and hard in the cool room. David isn’t looking at him, attention all on his clothes, but Jake can’t stop looking at him.

“C’mere?” Jake asks, when they’re down to their underwear, and David comes, lets Jake kiss him, but he pulls back after a second. Not far, though, mouth still close enough that Jake’s lips almost brush his when he says, “David.”

David pulls back then. “Lie down,” he says, a little shaky, and its how unsure he sounds that makes Jake do it, taking his underwear off after a second, because that seems where this is headed. Jake feels pretty naked, kind of because he is, but also with the way David stares. He’s not embarrassed to be naked, he’s naked all the time, and often around other people. Locker rooms have pretty much beat the embarrassed out of him, but this is different.

“Can you just—” Jake says, doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

David kneels on the bed, hand curling around his knee, and that’s what Jake wanted, he realizes. It’s easier when David’s touching him. Less like something he’s doing on his own. He’s put down the stuff beside him on the bed, and David reaches for it, slow, like it might bite him or something.

“Turn on your stomach,” David says. Jake’s heard it’s easier that way, the first time, and he’s sure they mean like the position, but it helps, too, not looking, not knowing he’s being looked at. He knows David is, but he can’t see it, and that’s — he didn’t realize he’d feel so self-conscious.

The thing about not seeing David looking at him means he doesn’t see David either, and he’s not expecting it, the sudden shock of David’s finger pressing in, slow, which would be startling enough even if the lube wasn’t ice cold.

David freezes, stock still, above him. “Cold,” Jake says, in case David thinks he’s hurting him or something.

“Sorry,” David says softly.

“S’cool,” Jake says, and David starts moving again, but slow, like he’s not completely sure what he’s doing. Jake’s never had someone do this to him, but he’s done it plenty to himself, lets David know when he can add another. Three fingers is more than he’s done before, the stretch a little uncomfortable at first until David brushes his prostate, and then it’s good, the stretch, how steady David is, good before it isn’t enough. Jake doesn’t think he’d be as slow, as careful if it was his dick in him, and he wants that, David’s dick but also David not being completely in control, David taking what he wants from him.

“Fuck me,” Jake mumbles, then, when David just freezes, louder, “David, fuck me.”

David pulls his fingers out, arm reaching for a condom in Jake’s peripheral. Jake hears the tear of the wrapper, the pop of the bottle of lube, but nothing happens for a bit, and Jake’s feeling that kind of naked again, but more, now.

“David,” Jake says, and hopes it doesn’t sound like begging.

“Get up on your knees,” David says, and when Jake does he nudges against him, slick and blunt. He’s not huge or anything, pretty close to average, unlike everything else about him, but that’s one thing when it’s in your hand or your mouth, and another thing when it’s pushing into you.

“Just–slow,” Jake says, coming out all shaky, and David is, at first, slow enough that Jake can adjust to it, the stretch again, David in him, inch by inch, barely shifting his hips, and he’s just starting to like the feeling when David’s fingers curl around his hip, his other hand wrapping around Jake’s dick, and then it’s — it’s really good, suddenly, David in him, David’s hand tight around him,  the jolt when he nudges Jake’s prostate and when he rubs his thumb over Jake’s slit, spreading the pre-come around, making it slicker, hand moving faster on Jake’s dick now that he’s got some slick, hips speeding up too, and it’s like — everywhere, and a lot, and Jake wants to do this again like, maybe as soon as he can get it up again, holy shit. Or to fuck David, who’d be so hot around him, so tight.

Jake’s pretty sure he’s begging, and he doesn’t even know what for, begging for David to make him come or to just keep going, not to stop. Coming with someone inside him feels different, the twin sensations as he clenches down around David, enough to make him want to come again, if he could. It almost hurts, David’s thrusts, he’s so sensitive after, but David doesn’t last long after he does, and Jake’s shaky arms stop supporting him, shifting down to his elbows with David a heavy weight at his back until he pulls out.

He gets up almost immediately after that, and Jake can hear the sink going in the bathroom. He’s drowsy now, but he tries to fight through it. It’s still pretty early. They’ve got a lot of time.

“C’mere,” Jake says, when David comes back.

“I have to go,” David says, pulling on his underwear.

Jake blinks the rest of his drowsiness away. “You don’t,” he says, moving to sit up. “I mean unless you’re going back to the reception. I can come, then.”

“No,” David says, pulling his pants on. “I’m not going to the reception.”

“Then will you just come here?” Jake asks.

David doesn’t, just pulls his shirt on, starting to button it up. He won’t look at Jake, not even in Jake’s direction.

“David,” Jake says.

“Stop calling me that,” David snaps.

Jake frowns. “It’s your name,” he says.

“And I never gave you the fucking right to call me it,” David says, and if Jake was calling him Davey or something he’d get it, but it’s his name. He looks angry again, and Jake’s — Jake doesn’t want -

“I know things are–weird, I guess, right now,” Jake says hesitantly, finding his own underwear and pulling it on, because this doesn’t feel like the kind of conversation you have naked, especially since David’s almost fully dressed by now. “But we’re friends, right? Or not friends, maybe–”

“I don’t know what planet you live on,” David says, sharp, “Whether the fact that everybody fucking loves you got to your head or something, but we’re not friends. I can’t stand you.”

Jake doesn’t—

David looks at him, finally, and there’s nothing in his face but the anger that was there at the start of the night. Or maybe it was there the whole time. Jake didn’t —

“Enjoy the award you don’t deserve,” David says, and walks out the door. The door shuts behind David, quiet, and Jake sits there, because he’s not sure what else to do, feeling stunned and used.


	139. Sandro/Sylvie, Thomas/Anton;  Yankees fan

Thomas Vincent is possibly the most kind, sweet, loving person Sandro has met in his entire life.

He’s also got the shittiest of shit taste, and Sandro knows shit taste, okay, up until Sylvie his most successful stab at a relationship was with a girl in Montreal who spoke worse English than Sandro did French, mostly because unlike his other relationships it didn’t implode with shocking shit like the one who fucked two of his teammates — no worries, except it was after they got together — or the one who was high half the time he saw her, and downright mean the other half of the time, or the Yankees fan. Fuck, he’d  _liked_  the Yankees fan, but that was a bridge too far. He can only betray one childhood team at a time, and obviously he’s kind of busy playing for the Habs right now, so the Bruins are getting the shaft. Plus, it’s the  _Yankees._

Petrov’s a Yankees fan. That’s like the least surprising shit in the world. Vinny laughs it off when Sandro presents that as a warning sign, which is ridiculous, because Sandro knows Vinny watches baseball, so he’s basically obligated to hate Yankees fans.

“That’s not a very good reason to hate someone,” Vinny says when Sandro points that out.

“Excuse you,” Sandro says. “You say that about Bruins fans?”

“Yes?” Thomas says. “Also, weren’t  _you_  a Bruins fan?”

Sylvie gives him a look like he’s being stupid.  _That’s_ stupid. She isn’t even a Habs fan. Well, she is now, but she was in Nordiques territory growing up, so she’s as much a traitor as he is. And he didn’t have a choice where he went. She  _chose_  to work for the Habs.

“The Yankees, Vinny,” Sandro stresses.

“How are they worse than the Red Sox?” Vinny asks.

Sandro has been betrayed. He takes back everything he has every said about Thomas being kind, and sweet, and loving.

“I mean, I get his point,” Sylvie says, after Thomas has gone home without taking his lesson to heart.

Sylvie is also awful.

“Petrov is terrible for him,” Sandro says.

“I thought we were talking about the Yankees,” Sylvie says.

“Being a Yankees fan is a sign!” Sandro says. “Obviously!”

“You’re a Red Sox fan,” Sylvie says flatly. “It’s not actually any better.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch,” Sandro says.

*

“Why aren’t you coming to bed?” Sandro asks.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” Sylvie says.

“You have got to stop believing me when I say things,” Sandro says. “Come to bed.”

Sylvie stubbornly remains on the couch. That doesn’t work for him.

“Put me down!” she yells when he scoops her up, blanket and all. “You’re going to throw out your back and I’m going to get fired!”

“I carry Vinny around, you’re nothing,” Sandro says, and carries her to bed.

*

“You made Sylvie sleep on the couch?” Vinny asks him, frowning, in front of basically everyone. “For not liking the Red Sox?”

Bovard’s giving him a Very Disappointed look, along with like, half the fucking room, while Vinny’s mouth is curling up just a little. He is a kind, sweet, loving person, Sandro guesses that’s true, but he’s also a fucking troll.

“You and Petrov deserve each other,” Sandro mutters.

“Thank you,” Vinny says cheerfully, which totally ruins the insult.


	140. Georgie; pressure point

Georgie wakes up to the sound of the toilet flushing and a steady throb behind his eyes. Chris somehow got up without Georgie poking him out of bed, he thinks at first, but the walls are the pale blue of his bedroom, not the generic white of a hotel. Fuck. She wasn’t supposed to stay the night. He remembers something vague about her living in the burbs, but pretty much everything after they left the club is hazy, including the sex. The only thing he’s going to hold onto from last night is the weight in the pit of his stomach, same as last time, the time before. Fuck knows why he keeps doing it.

“Hey, you’re up,” he hears from his bedroom doorway. “Can I use your shower?” Georgie doesn’t remember her name. It’d be offensive to ask now, and it’s pretty irrelevant at this point regardless. She’s wearing a shirt that has to be his. The weight in his stomach has morphed into nausea.

“I’ve got to head to work really soon,” Georgie says. “Sorry.” He doesn’t, practice isn’t for two hours, but every minute she sticks around is a physical reminder, and he can’t — he needs her to go.

“What did you say you do?” she asks, and Georgie doesn’t remember if he told her, if this is genuine curiosity or something else.

“Nothing interesting,” he says.

“Kay,” she says, with skepticism that makes him pretty sure he did tell her. “I’ll just head out then, unless—”

“I’ve got practice,” he says, short, then, again, “Sorry.”

She dresses while he’s in the bathroom. He stays in there longer than he needs to, washes his hands, mechanical, the length the signs always say to do, hoping she takes his cue, but she’s still there when he gets out.

“Didn’t want to leave your door unlocked,” she says, uncomfortably enough that his irritation must be showing. “I’m just going to head out.”

“Okay,” Georgie says. He’s aware he’s being an asshole, and it’s not her fault, it’s just — “You need cab money?” he asks.

“I’m good,” she says.

“Get home safe,” Georgie says, to her back.

He feels a little paralyzed once she’s gone, unsure if he should get in the shower or go back to bed, sleep the hangover off. Aspirin first, if he’s going that route, probably some Gatorade. He’s made it to the kitchen, dry-swallowed two Aspirin, considering whether sugar will make him feel better or worse, when there’s a knock on the door. Georgie blows out a frustrated breath, almost as sick of her as he is himself.

“Did you forget—” Georgie says, then bites down on his tongue, hard, when he sees it’s Robbie at his door.

“Hi,” Robbie says, and for a moment Georgie is stupidly happy. Key word stupidly, because a second is all it takes to parse Robbie’s expression, acknowledge the tone of his voice. For that one split second, the weight’s gone, and then it all crashes down on top of him at once.


	141. Mike/Liam; daemon AU

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Lena snaps at him the moment Liam’s out the door, slamming it behind him.

“Don’t you fucking start with me too, I swear to Christ,” Mike says.

“You didn’t even  _let_ them fucking start,” Lena says. Always ‘them’, with her. “You’re breaking their hearts.”

Lena’s…fond of Cian, who’s as much a goddamn monkey on Mike’s back as Liam is. Moreso, maybe, because he  _is_  a monkey, but unlike his human he doesn’t actually jump on Mike’s back, so maybe less. Literal goddamn monkey on Lena’s back sometimes, and she takes it with a lot more patience than he has. She always has been patient. One of them has to be, he guesses.

“Like Cian cares,” Mike mutters, but he knows that isn’t true. Daemons are meant to be an extension of you, of your feelings, and Liam — Mike doesn’t know how it’s possible to feel that much and not go crazy with it. Teenagers, he guesses, though he doesn’t remember being like that, and Liam’s twenty now.

Lena shoves past Mike with her big, lumbering body, and the only reason Mike doesn’t end up flat on his ass is because she chooses not to knock him down. Mike doesn’t care how good your balance is, a bear wants to knock you down, you’re going down, and his balance is shit lately anyway.

She can’t go far, and clearly not as far as she wants to, and in the end she ends up in the corner of the room, staring at the wall. Sulking, obviously.

“The plaster job must be riveting,” Mike says, when it’s been at least a minute.

“Better than looking at your ugly face,” she snarls.

“Oh fuck off, Lena,” Mike says. “He’s better off without me.”

“Sure,” she says, flat. “Better off without you, better off not knowing how fucked in the head you are right now—”

“Hey,” Mike snaps.

“You can’t lie to me, I can feel it,” she snaps back. “And it isn’t like the other times.”

“You think I don’t get that?” Mike asks. “You think he’d leave Edmonton, knowing that?”

“You always said he was a selfish brat,” Lena mutters. “Obviously you don’t believe it yourself.”

“We both know that’s bullshit by now,” Mike says, and Lena snorts like she’s debating the ‘by now’ part. “He’d stay. He’d stay on a shit team with a shit—”

“Boyfriend,” Lena says, when he doesn’t.

Mike doesn’t acknowledge it. “And he’d waste his talent and his fucking time.” This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. It’s not even the second. Mike is so tired of talking it through, just as tired as he is of thinking it through. Thinking at all, lately, and this has been worse, like a bone stuck in his throat.

Lena shuffles to face him, which is the closest to a truce he’s going to get right now, he knows, because she’s furious, he can feel it. Absolutely rigid with fury, and Mike gets it. Mike — she deserves to be. And Liam too, who was shaking with it so badly he almost upset Cian from where he was perched on his shoulder, looking like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to yell or cry. Did neither, in the end, his voice as soft as Mike had ever heard it when he told Mike there was something broken in him.

He wasn’t wrong.

Lena shuffles a step forward, another.

“I don’t want a hug,” Mike says.

“Too bad,” she snaps, and he can’t fight his way out of it. Can’t really fight his way out of anything, anymore, but they call it a bear hug for a reason.

“I hate your guts right now,” Lena mutters.

“Right back at you,” Mike mumbles into her fur.


	142. David, Jake; draft days

Shea doesn’t know who are worse, the interviewers that pretend he has a hope in hell at going first or second, or the ones who make it clear they know it’s going to be Jake and Chapman as the top two and then spend their time peppering the two of them with questions so him and the others are left twiddling their thumbs, maybe getting some ‘oh shit we have to ask everyone something’ quick question at the end.

Jake is a pretty cool dude, friendly, reminds Shea of like half his team, and five minutes after meeting him Shea starts feeling comfortable just shooting the shit with him. It’s kind of awkward, the situation, the way he knows that Jake is going to go ahead of him, the way it’s crystal clear, from the media to the teams themselves, his interviews with the Panthers and the Islanders kind of short, distracted, like they have to do it but all of them know they’re not taking him if they have a chance with Jake or Chapman. The one with Oilers is different, like they actually give a shit, care what he has to say, but he bets if by some miracle Jake or Chapman was still available by third pick they’d be snatching them up in a heartbeat.

Shea knows Chapman from U18, though Chapman got hauled up to play U20 this year, but he doesn’t really  _know_  the guy. Chapman’s quiet. Sullen, Shea would go with, because it’s not just quiet. Shea’s teammates call him quiet, even though he isn’t, really, just in comparison to all those loudmouths. Chapman’s never been friendly, but it’s on hyperdrive here, the ultimate in unfriendliness. Cory played with them both too, and Shea’s relieved he’s there. Cory’s great, except when Shea has to play against him. Then Shea guesses he’s extra great, which is why Shea hates playing him. They band together, through those awkward interviews, because Chapman gives out this whole awkward aura, and Jake keeps getting tripped up by it, keeps trying and failing to have a conversation with him.

Shea’s relieved when it’s over, honestly. The interviews from the media and the teams, the cameras, everything. Though technically it’s just started. His mom is gripping his hand so hard it hurts when they start the draft. He’s pretty sure he’s gripping back hard enough to hurt her too.

Jake goes first, which is a surprise for the media, but not for Shea, not with the way Jake is versus Chapman. Appearances matter, all that, and if you’ve got the choice of two ballin’ players, maybe pick the one who doesn’t suck the air out of the room. Chapman’s second, again no surprise, though Shea does feel a little disappointed, even though it’s stupid.  

Cory goes to the Oilers, which stings more than the first two, by far, because Shea was projected third, and he knows none of that’s set in stone or anything, but still. At least it’s a different position — well, he’s centre to Lourdes’ and Chapman’s spots on the wings, but if you need a defenceman, you need a defenceman. Shea only slips one place, to Kansas City, and he would have preferred Edmonton, because Alberta’s a whole lot closer to Manitoba than Missouri is, more familiar, but he can’t complain. Fourth overall. He can’t complain.

“That was the most awkward shit in my life,” Cory whispers to him at the impromptu after party. No one’s listening, Shea doesn’t know why he’s whispering.

“What, the draft?” Shea asks. It ended up being even more nerve-wracking than he thought it would be, being used to attention on that level, but not when he’s wearing shoes instead of skates.

“Nah, the photos after?” Cory says. “Like holy shit, I’m pretty sure Chapman’s going to kill Lourdes by the end of the night.”

Shea looks around. Chapman’s nowhere to be seen, but Jake is laughing with… Shea thinks his name’s Dineen, bottle of Bud in his hand. “Looks alive to me.”

“Night’s still young,” Cory says darkly.


	143. Gabe/Stephen; clean white sheet

“You sure about this?” Gabe asks. It’s not the first time he’s asked, and judging by Stephen’s expression, it’s officially one time too many. He doesn’t mean to worry, he definitely doesn’t want to be the person getting in the way of Stephen moving forward, and Stephen — Stephen doesn’t always know his limits, Gabe isn’t worrying for nothing, but if he hasn’t judged it right, Gabe’s there to catch him.

Gabe’s not worried about the skating itself. Stephen skates like a dream, smoother than Gabe ever has, almost weightless. That was one of the differences on their prospect reports — a lot of their pros and cons were the same; playmaking, precision, speed as pros, size, physicality, two-way play as cons. Stephen’s speed was his highest listed pro, his two-way play his worst con. Gabe ended up somewhere in the middle on both.

Stephen isn’t going to have a problem skating. Gabe knows that. Gabe’s worried that — he isn’t sure. It’s all worst case scenarios. That being on the ice upsets him, brings him back to the last time he was on it. Or that he loses his balance somehow, lands on his wrist, that they end up back in the hospital. He doesn’t mention them. If he does, Stephen’s more likely to barrel in, uncautious, trying to prove him wrong. He just asks if Stephen’s sure. One too many times, apparently.

They’ve got the place to themselves, rented out the entire rink. An hour costs a hundreds of bucks, but this isn’t the kind of thing to do during a free skate time, with the constant dangers of kids barreling into them, knocking Stephen off balance, and the way Gabe can’t be really there with him, not like he wants to, can’t take his hand like he could now, if he wanted to, needed to. They can afford it, anyway.

The first hurdle is the skates, because Stephen can’t lace them, not one handed. “Okay if I—” Gabe says, getting on his knees in the dressing room, and Stephen swallows, nods once, sharp, and lets Gabe tie his skates for him like their parents used to when they were too little to do it themselves. Stephen’s dad was the best at it, not balking when they complained it was too tight, because too tight was the only way it was tight enough for proper ankle support.

“Did I do a Johan job?” Gabe asks, when he’s done, and Stephen smiles for what feels like the first time that day, gives him a thumbs up.

Stephen starts slow, if not as slow as Gabe would like, one hand white-knuckled on the boards, watching him, trying to resist the urge to skate a step behind him like all those parents when their kids are still wobbly. Stephen’s not wobbly. Slow, at first, but he picks up speed, and takes a lap, smooth and quick but not recklessly so, the sound of his skate blades clean and sharp against the fresh sheet of ice.

Gabe waits for him at the door, and Stephen gives him a blinding white smile as he skates past him.

“Going to let me come along?” Gabe calls after him.

“You’d slow me down,” Stephen calls back, and Gabe’s grinning as wide as he is when he comes back around.


	144. David/Jake; The Great Potato Trip

**The Great Potato Trip:**

In which David is far too ambitious and decided to cram a billion places in, 14 cities in 30 days is honestly more exhausting than a playoff run, Jake is so very tired of cathedrals, and David finds potatoes everywhere he goes.

Excerpts from David’s travelogue, which mostly just becomes a ‘yummy food we ate’ and ‘place for us to bicker in writing’. Jake keeps it in his office and pulls it out when he wants to feel mushy. Not that he needs any help. 

_Reykjavik, Iceland_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Smoked salmon with potato rosti and wasabi yogurt

Jake - Baby back ribs slow cooked in Toasted Porter beer, homemade BBQ sauce, fresh salad, lime, spring onions & curly fries

**Notes:**

Jake: Only got like two of those curly fries. David seemed to enjoy them though.

David: You had half of them.

Jake: I thought there were more than four. Must be wrong. Anyway, the waterfalls are pretty ballin’. Kind of sucks we’re only here for a couple days. 

 

_Oslo, Norway_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Oven-baked Arctic Char, fennel, tomatoes, crushed potatoes with EVOO, garlic confit, butter sauce

Jake - Reindeer medallion with celeriac puree, fresh vegetables and creamy game sauce with blackberries

**Notes:**

David: I can’t believe you ate reindeer.

Jake: Babe, if I knew it’d upset you this much I wouldn’t have eaten it.

David: I’m not upset. 

Jake: It was really good though.

David: JAKE. 

 

_Stockholm, Sweden_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Pan fried perch, salt-baked beets, pickled lemon, new potatoes, horseradish and beurre noisette

Jake - Fillet of reindeer with västerbotten croquettes and a red wine sauce flavored by smoked bone marrow of ox

**Notes:**

David: STOP EATING REINDEER.

Jake: I thought you weren’t upset!

 

_Copenhagen, Denmark_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Skin fried pike-perch with mashed potatoes, apple-celery salad and hazelnut butter

Jake - Braised veal cheek with ramson capers, spinach and smoked marrow 

**Notes:**

Jake: Honestly I’m kind of worried you’re going to become a potato. When was the last time you didn’t get something with potatoes?

David: How would that make me become a potato?

Jake: You are what you eat!

David: So why aren’t you a dick yet?

Jake: I love you. I’m taking a picture of this and sending it to Volkie.

Jake: Note by Volkie: ‘I have never been more proud in my life’.

 

_Berlin, Germany  
_ ****

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Entrecôte with baked rosemary potatoes and herb garlic butter

Jake - Pork schnitzel, warm potato salad, cucumber salad

**Notes:**

Jake: I don’t know why I bother getting stuff with potatoes. I never get to eat any of it.

David: You ate everything!

Jake: I ate the schnitzel and the salad. How was the potato salad?

David: Very good.

Jake: Good to know.

 

_Prague, Czech Republic  
_ ****

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Tomato gnocchi with crème fraiche, basil and dried tomatoes

Jake - Duck breast with carrots, apricots, flambeed broccoli, and lavender

**Notes:**

David: My favourite one didn’t have any potatoes. So stop asking if I’m going to leave you for potatoes.

Jake: I am like 99% sure gnocchi’s made of potatoes.

David: No it isn’t.

Jake: David just looked it up and now he won’t talk to me. :(

 

_Vienna, Austria  
_ ****

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Spring chicken, jalapeno salsa verde, roasted broccoli, mashed potatoes 

Jake - Apricot bellini

**Notes:**

Jake: David lasted one day without potatoes trying to make a point.

David: I wasn’t trying to make a point.

Jake: One day. Then back to potatoes.

David: Well you didn’t even pick a dish.

Jake: It was a really memorable bellini.

 

_Munich, Germany_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Dover sole, spinach, smoked almonds, parsley potatoes

Jake - Veal goulash, spinach dumplings, sour cream

**Notes:**

Jake: I never want to eat anything but goulash ever again.

David: It wasn’t THAT good.

Jake: If it had potatoes you wouldn’t be saying that.

David: What is your obsession with potatoes?

Jake: MY obsession?

_Zurich, Switzerland_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Saveloy, Gruyère cheese, pickled gherkins, salad, onions, fried potatoes

Jake - That burger. Damn. And those fries.

**Notes:**

David: I still can’t believe you made us ditch our reservation to go to a burger place.

Jake: Were the fries great or what?

David: They were acceptable.

Jake: Dude.

David: Okay, they were good.

Jake: Damn straight.

 

_Lyon, France_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Pan-fried lamb chops, lamb confit and eggplant gratin with parmesan cheese and tomato-pesto sauce.

Jake - cheese.

**Notes:**

David: You can’t just say cheese.

Jake: That cheese plate? There were like a billion types of cheese.

David: So say the cheese plate. And specify which types of cheese were on it. You’re ruining the format.

Jake: Cheeeeeeeese.

David: If you’re not going to do it right don’t bother.

Jake: David’s just grumpy because everyone looks at him funny when he speaks French to them.

David: I’m not grumpy.

Jake: And because none of the fancy places we went seemed to have potatoes and now he’s in withdrawal. So much for french fries.

David: You’re being ridiculous.

Jake: I really really hope Marseille has potatoes or he’s going to lose it.

Jake: He’s not talking to me again. :(

 

_Marseille, France_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Seared Tuna a la plancha and sauce vierge

Jake - Burger, fries. It was David’s fav too, he’s just being pretentious.

 **Notes:**  
Jake: Marseille is almost as pretty as David is and we found an American style burger place that had french fries that legit earned the title for french fries, so all is good in Jake and David Land.

David: Aren’t I a little too old to be called pretty?

Jake: Nope.

David: And it’s most MEMORABLE dish. A burger and fries aren’t memorable.

Jake: You stuffing your face with french fries was pretty memorable.

David: I wasn’t stuffing my face.

Jake: You had chipmunk cheeks.

Jake: David just told me he is TOO GROWN UP to argue in a book. That means I win. 

Jake: And he did have chipmunk cheeks. It was adorable. Not that he isn’t usually, just extra adorable.

 

_Barcelona, Spain_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Patatas Bravas

Jake - The two bites I got to have of the patatas bravas

**Notes:**

Jake: We ordered THREE SERVINGS of patatas bravas, our waiter asked three times if we were sure we wanted that much, and I still didn’t eat ANY OF THEM.

David: I let you have some.

Jake: I ate two bites and David glared at me until I switched to the ham. So much for sharing plates.

David: Jake’s sulking.

Jake: JAKE’S HUNGRY.

_Madrid, Spain_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Grilled Hake with Sauteed Tender Vegetables and Garlic-Oil

Jake -  Salad with King Prawn Ceviche, Scallops, Avocado and toasted Quico

**Notes:**

Jake: Liar.

David: Why would I lie?

Jake: What’d you have as your starter, David?

David: Potatoes.

Jake: What kind of potatoes?

David: Patatas bravas.

Jake: And did you share?

David: Apparently Jake’s still sulking.

Jake: NO YOU DID NOT SHARE.

 

_Lisbon, Portugal_

**Most memorable dish:**

David - Braised tuna with chives and miso sauce

Jake - All the potatoes I never got to eat.

**Notes:**

Jake: HE’S LYING AGAIN. HE DIDN’T EVEN FINISH IT. UNLIKE THE POTATOES HE HAD FIRST. AND THE POTATOES I HAD WITH MY STEAK. OR DIDN’T HAVE ACTUALLY. I’M GOING ON STRIKE AND VOLKIE SUPPORTS ME.

David: Kiro supports you going on strike?

Jake: After all the potato stealing he thinks it’s fair. He’s going on strike too if you steal his potatoes again.

David: What are you even going on strike from?

Jake: Eating at restaurants with you. Volkie’s with me.

David: Why are you even texting Kiro about potatoes?

Jake: BECAUSE I NEEDED TO KNOW SOMEONE ELSE HAD SUFFERED YOUR POTATO TYRANNY TOO.

David: Tyranny?

Jake: That’s what Volkie called it.

David: Good to know.

Jake: I got Volkie in trouble didn’t I?

Jake: Oh shit I’m getting the silent treatment again.

Jake: I love you so much but I am never going on a vacation longer than a week with you ever again.


	145. David/Jake; wants and needs

David brings it up in the week between the end of the season and the beginning of training camp. He was planning on having more time between those dates, but, of course he isn’t complaining. Jake hasn’t either, even though the months of playoffs, plus the festivities after, all cut into their offseason time together considerably. 

He brings it up while there’s still a ghost of a hangover pounding in his temples from three days ago — and several days before that — and while the accumulation of bruises and minor wounds have only started to fade.

David’s been thinking about it for awhile, now, but he’s been too focused on the playoffs to think about it too much lately, perhaps to overthink it. It’s more something that drifted through his mind late at night when he was exhausted but couldn’t sleep, missing Jake as much as always, something that rides the border of arousing and terrifying.

He knows it shouldn’t be the latter. It’s something he’s more than familiar with, at least on the other end of things, and Jake’s always enjoyed it, usually vocally. If David doesn’t enjoy it, David doesn’t, and he’s sure Jake would never press again — not that he’s pressed before, said anything beyond the barest hints. David’s more worried he will, he thinks.

It’s…difficult, broaching the subject with Jake. First there doesn’t seem to be a good time, but when time’s ticking down and David’s looking training in the face, he can’t procrastinate any longer. Jake’s never seemed to have difficulty performing, following, but David doesn’t know if that’s true of first times or — he can’t really ask anyone but Jake about it, regardless. If he asked Robbie he’d probably laugh for five minutes and then ask why David assumed he took it. Which David doesn’t. Just.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” David blurts.

Jake pauses, fingers stalling over his phone. “Right now?” he says. “Give me a two secs, I just have to—”

David isn’t being clear enough, obviously. “I mean,” he says, then, more muttered than anything else, “Do you want to fuck me? I mean – you know what I mean.”

Jake puts down his phone. “Yes?” he says. “Like. Duh. Yes. What brought this up?”

David supposes that’s a fair question, considering they’ve just finished breakfast. It really isn’t the time to be discussing such things, if there is an appropriate time. Probably just before the act, but this feels more loaded than that.

“I just kind of want to get it over with,” David says.

Jake frowns. “If this isn’t something you want—” he says.

“It’s not that,” David says. “It’s just kind of. I don’t know.”

Jake’s usually helpful then, fills in the blanks David doesn’t quite know how to express, and he gets it right more often than not. But this time he doesn’t say anything, eyes on David, so David has to look down, pretend he doesn’t see Jake looking at him.

“It just—” David tries.

Jake doesn’t say anything.

“I’m nervous,” David admits, though it’s hard to.

“I get it?” Jake says. “Honestly, I was super self-conscious the first time you fucked me.”

“I’m sorry,” David says.

“Not your—” Jake says.

“About how that went,” David says. “I’m really sorry. I thought you’d done it before, but I — that’s not an excuse.”

“It’s okay, babe,” Jake says.

“It wasn’t okay,” David says.

Jake’s quiet for a second. “It wasn’t, but it is now, you know?” he says.

“Not really,” David says honestly.

Jake smiles a bit. “I’m okay about it,” he says. “It kinda sucked at the time, because I really liked you and that was—”

David winces, and Jake squeezes his knee, comforting. David can’t even apologise without Jake trying to comfort him. That used to annoy him, but that’s just the way Jake is, he knows that now.

“This isn’t, like,” Jake says. “Trying to say sorry by letting me fuck you or something?”

“No!” David says, then, a little reluctant to say it aloud, “I want to.”

“You sure?” Jake asks.

“What, think I can’t handle it?” David asks, and Jake smirks for a second before it drops and his face is serious again.

“It isn’t a competition, you know,” Jake says. “Whether or not—”

“I know,” David says, exasperated. “I want to, Jake, okay?”

“Okay,” Jake says. “I just — I know this is like the last thing you want to talk about but it’s kind of important?”

David feels his guard go up immediately, but says, “Okay,” cautiously.

“Do you have um,” Jake says. “Like, have you actually done this before?”

“You know I haven’t—” David says.

“Not like, full on,” Jake says. “And not like — I know you haven’t with other people. But like.”

“Like?” David says.

“Fingering?” Jake says.

“I’ve done it,” David says. “I mean. To. Um.”

“You’ve fingered yourself,” Jake says, and David’s grateful Jake says it so he doesn’t have to, but he doesn’t know how it comes out so easily for him. His cheeks are a little pink, though, so maybe David isn’t the only one embarrassed. “That’s so fucking hot,” Jake says, and David flushes darker. Maybe he is the only one embarrassed by it. “Did you think about me?”

David didn’t think he could go any hotter, but he does.

“You don’t have to answer that, I—” Jake says quickly.

“Yes,” David says. It sticks in his throat. “I. Yes.”

Jake shuts his eyes for a second. “Okay, I’m going to jerk off to that image forever,” he says.

“Jake!” David says.

“I’m just being honest!” Jake says.

“We just had breakfast!” David says, in a voice that sounds hysterical to his own ears.

“You brought it up first!” Jake legitimately points out. “You want to?”

“Yes,” David admits.

“Like, today, or in a month, or in the distant future?” Jake asks. “Where you at, babe?”

“Soon,” David says. “Training’s coming up, and —”

“I love you,” Jake interrupts him. Jake doesn’t usually interrupt him, and David doesn’t like being interrupted, but as far as interruptions go, this one is not terrible.

“I love you too,” David says. Every time he says it it seems to get a little bit easier, and stays equally true. Jake smiles at him, before his gaze shifts. “Are you looking at my ass right now?” David asks. He supposes it’s not surprising, considering the topic of conversation it’s just— David doesn’t know if there’s a word that encompasses both mortifying and flattering.

“You can’t blame me!” Jake says, half embarrassed and half defensive, and when David starts to laugh Jake leans in and kisses his temple.


	146. Mike/Liam; assumptions

Liam doesn’t know why he asks Roge for Mike’s number.

That’s not true. That’s about as obvious lie as Liam’s ever told.

Liam shouldn’t have asked. That’s truer. Not that Liam’s ever been swayed by ‘shouldn’t’.

He didn’t know if Mike would give it, but he does. Okays Roge giving Liam his number, and responds to Liam’s texts, and agrees to meet him, and every step of the way, Liam’s heart pounds out of his chest, something close to adrenaline but not quite. Mike always brought that out in him.

His heart’s pounding again when Mike shows up. There’s a touch of grey at his temples that wasn’t there the last time Liam saw him. He’s young for it, but it suits him, and so does the weight he’s put on, still sturdy looking, but softer than he was when he was in game shape. He looks good. He looks fucking great.

“I didn’t really think you’d come,” Liam says, mouth ahead of his brain as usual. Jordy says he’s incapable of not stating the obvious, and that’s true. It’s cold out. Getting bag skated sucks. Liam didn’t really think Mike would come. He hoped, though.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Mike says, dry as he’s always been, and Liam can’t help roll his eyes, the way he always did. It’s too easy, effortless, to sink back into that, like he’s a teenager again and Mike Brouwer is his entire world.

That ease is upset pretty quick, when the waiter comes by and Liam orders a beer, Mike club soda and orange juice, which Liam’s never seen him order in his life.

“Can’t drink anymore,” Mike says flatly when Liam gives him a questioning look, and Liam looks away, embarrassed.

“I don’t have to–” Liam says, when the waiter sets down their drinks. Mike’s has a straw. Liam’s never seen him drink anything with a straw before either. That’s a weird thing to realise.

“Drink your fucking beer, Liam,” Mike says, firm, and Liam takes a sip. It’s bitter on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Liam asks, because he has to. He held back as long as he could, but he has to, because it’s been eating away at him, acidic, for years.

Mike’s been retired now for almost as long as it’s been since Liam’s seen him. Liam’s been stewing on that for just as long, that Mike must’ve known, even when they were still together, that he was done. That he knew, and that he didn’t tell Liam.

He expects Mike to pretend he doesn’t know what Liam’s talking about, maybe pretend ignorance beyond that if Liam presses. That’s what Mike does. Deny, deny, deny.

“You didn’t need to know,” Mike says, more forthright than Liam would have thought, but still a denial. Same as always, Mike. Liam didn’t realise how much he’d missed him. Or, he had, but it’s different, being confronted with it face to face.

“Bullshit,” Liam says, too loud. He bites his tongue, tries again. “Bullshit I didn’t need to know, we practically fucking lived together.”

Mike doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him. He discards the straw on the table, takes a sip of his drink.

“Did you know when you did it?” Liam asks, because that’s been weighing on him just as long.

“Did I know what?” Mike asks.

“Did you know how bad things were?” Liam asks. “When you ended it.”

“It doesn’t matter, Liam,” Mike says. He sounds tired.

“It matters to me,” Liam says stubbornly.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “I knew. And what would you have done if you knew? What were you going to do, hang around on a dead end team trying to play fucking nurse with a dead end player? You didn’t need to know.”

He would have. They both know he would have. He doesn’t regret the choice he did make, he doesn’t think, but he wouldn’t have made it if he knew, and he doesn’t think he’d have regretted staying in Edmonton either, if that’s where Mike stayed. “It was my choice to make,” Liam says.

“And you would have made a shitty choice,” Mike says.

There are so many arguments Liam could make, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to argue with him, he’s not here to argue with him. He doesn’t know why he is, but it’s not to argue. He takes a sip of beer instead, holds his tongue.

“This was a bad idea,” Mike says, and Liam doesn’t know whether or not that’s true. It hurts, hurts more than he thought it would, and he figured it would hurt a lot, but it doesn’t feel like a bad idea.

“Would you come to the game tomorrow?” Liam asks. It’s probably not the right time to ask, but he needs to. “If I got you a ticket.” Like he doesn’t have one already, bought it on Ticketmaster, not wanting to ask someone in front office if they could do it for him. Not wanting anyone to know. He felt stupid when he did it.

“No,” Mike says. Liam’s stomach drops, and he feels even stupider.

“I haven’t watched a game since—” Mike says, sounding uncomfortable. “I don’t watch hockey.”

“Oh,” Liam says. Since when? He was watching it when he was on IR, watching the Oilers get flattened. Always knew if Liam had scored. Or maybe he wasn’t watching. Maybe he looked up the final score and Liam just assumed he’d seen it. It wouldn’t suprise him, Mike hiding it. He hid a lot, apparently.

“I should go,” Mike says, and starts to put on his coat.

“No,” Liam says quickly, and Mike stops, looking at him. “No. Stay. Please.” He’s begging. He knows he’s begging, but he can’t help it. It doesn’t matter. Mike stays.


	147. Thomas/Anton; bubbles

It’s the most tempting sight in the world. Thomas doesn’t know if there was a screw up with their room or what, because while the main room looks pretty much like every other one — other than the fact it’s a king instead of two doubles, the bathroom’s got a whirlpool tub the size of like — it’s big. It was just a ‘huh’ kind of thing when they checked in, the bed thing more relevant to them, mostly in that it’ll be more convenient. A double really doesn’t feel big enough for both of them when they’ve got bigger beds at home.

But he’s definitely noticing it after the game. Thomas got nailed in the second, one of the Flyers going into him elbow first, it felt like, and his shoulder got jammed pretty hard into the post. He played through the rest of the game, but his shoulder feels stiff now, sore, and a bath is tempting. Anton’s been trying to hide a limp, his knee again, Thomas thinks, though he won’t confirm it, and Thomas could swear he looks straight up heartbroken when Thomas announces he’s taking a bath.

“Unless you want—” Thomas says.

“No, your shoulder—” Anton says.

“There’s room for both of us,” Thomas says.

Anton hesitates a little, but then shrugs. “Okay,” he says.

“I think the last time I did this was with Meg,” Thomas says, as he’s filling the tub, which is going to take half the night, it feels like.

Anton goes all frowny.

“Like, when we were little kids,” Thomas says, laughing. “There were more bubbles though.”

“We can have bubbles,” Anton says, and grabs the little bottles of body wash from beside the sink, pouring them out under the tap. It doesn’t make nearly as many bubbles as bubble bath would do, but smells nice, something sharp, clean about the scent.

Getting in the tub’s a whole event, Thomas trying not to use his shoulder when he helps Anton up, because the edge of the tub’s high, and the water’s extra slippery thanks to the body wash. Anton’s knee isn’t looking great, swollen and red.

“You should really talk to the trainers about it,” Thomas says.

“Like you talked to them about your shoulder?” Anton asks.

“I’ll do it before practice tomorrow if it’s still stiff,” Thomas says, and then does his best to sink down without making too much contact between his shoulder and the porcelain. It’s hot, even a little hotter than he’d like it, but he can feel something in him relax.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Anton says, though Thomas wasn’t aware he was. “Fine, I’ll talk to Guy before practice.”

“Thanks,” Thomas says. The bath’s huge, but neither of them are small, and Thomas nudges Anton’s knee accidentally, jams his shoulder in his hurry to scoot back. “Sorry,” Thomas says, through gritted teeth. “Sorry.”

“Fuck it,” Anton says, then, “Sit up and scoot forward.”

Thomas does, not really getting what Anton means until Anton shuffles across the tub, scoots in behind him, knees on either side of Thomas’. “Lie back?” Anton asks, and Thomas does. Anton’s chest is more comfortable than the edge of the tub by a lot.

Thomas has cuddled with Anton more times than he can count, especially since they got together, but it’s never been, well. Naked. He thought about it before, thought it’d feel a little awkward, like it’s supposed to be something it isn’t, that he’d get self-conscious about being naked in a way he never is in the locker room, but it’s just nice, Anton’s chest rising steadily behind his back, the warmth of the water leeching out the remaining tension until Thomas is loose with it, practically weightless, Anton’s arm tucked around his stomach the only thing keeping him up.

“This is nice,” Thomas mumbles, eyes slipping shut.

“Yeah,” Anton says, quiet enough Thomas almost doesn’t hear him, even though his mouth is so close to Thomas’ ear that he barely has to shift to lean down and press a kiss to Thomas’ hair.


	148. Liam; either-or

Liam is pretty sure he’s gay. Actually, he’s really sure. He hasn’t told his parents yet, because he doesn’t know how they’ll take it, and his dad keeps asking him if he likes any girls yet, maybe one of the three girls he spends all his time with. He keeps laughing at the face Liam makes, says he will eventually. Liam doesn’t think so, though.

Liam’s pretty sure he’s gay, and hockey players aren’t gay. That’s just the basics. Or if they are, they’re definitely not saying.

Except Dan Riley is a hockey player, if not a very good one — well, he’s better than Liam, even though Liam’s the best in his league, but not like, good for the NHL or anything, and he’s gay. So. Like. Maybe.

Marc Lapointe’s gay too. Or he isn’t, technically, he says he’s something else, something Liam doesn’t really get, watching his press conference. His mom explains it to him, that Lapointe wouldn’t want to kiss anyone he wasn’t friends with first, which. Obviously. Who would? The point is the person he’s kissing — and Liam knows his mom doesn’t just mean kissing, he’s thirteen, not five — is Riley, who’s a guy, so. That’s the important bit, for Liam.

Everyone’s making a huge deal out of it, because hockey players aren’t gay, except obviously that’s not true, and it seems like it’s blowing everyone’s mind. It’s blowing Liam’s mind too, but not in the way some of the sports guys are blown away, like there’s something wrong with it, or the way some people are online, and they can be horrible. Like, Liam hates the Leafs, but some of the stuff they say makes him want to be sick.

For Liam, it’s — he thought he might have to stop playing hockey, or stop being gay, and he doesn’t think you can just turn off being gay. If he could, he would have done it already, would make himself like girls, maybe Izzy, who’s really pretty but not in a way that makes his heart beat faster like the captain of the Habs or the guy in the other eighth grade class who looks like he’s sixteen or something. But apparently it’s not either-or, which is a relief. A big one.

*

Six months later, he thinks he’s ready to say it out loud. He decides to tell his parents first. Well, after he tells Patricia and Hailie and Izzy, who completely one ups him by telling him she’s pretty sure she likes girls, and almost as sure something’s going on between her and her friend Sabrina. Good thing he didn’t make himself have a crush on her. That’d have been awkward. Izzy’s obviously not freaked out, and neither is Hailie, whose cousin is gay, which he didn’t know, or Patricia, but nothing ever fazes Patricia. It’s a good practice run, but he knows it isn’t going to be the same with his parents.

He tries to talk himself into it all through dinner, and it’s hard to eat, even though he really likes taco night. He makes it through like half of one to his parents’ two each before they turn these expectant faces on him.

“I’m gay,” Liam blurts, before they can ask. It isn’t that hard to say, actually. Fourth time’s the charm.

His mom and dad share a look. They do that a lot, and Liam can only sometimes figure out what they mean. This one, he has no clue.

“Sweetie, you’re a little young—” his mom says. “You’re only fourteen, you can’t really be sure who you want yet—”

“Dad keeps talking about me getting a girlfriend,” Liam says. 

“Well, that’s—” she says, then mutters, “Touche,” at his dad.

“Is this about those hockey players?” his dad asks. Liam can’t quite figure out the look on his face. “The ones you keep talking about?”

“Kind of,” Liam says. “Not me being gay, I already knew that, I just.”

“Just what?” his mom prompts.

“I just,” Liam says. “I thought I could be gay, or I could be a hockey player, and like. I didn’t want to pick. So. I tried not to, I guess.”

“Oh, Liam,” she says, and Liam doesn’t usually let her hug him anymore, but this time he hugs her back.


	149. Raf, Jared/Bryce; pigtail pulling

Something’s going on between Jared and Marcus.

Well, something’s been going between Jared and Marcus since the first day of camp, when Jared threw Marcus’ less than spotless criminal record in his face in front of more than a few of the guys and Marcus went red and furious. Raf doesn’t think it’s particularly smart to bait the guys who are supposed to be teaching you, but Marcus isn’t officially a trainer or anything, there on a volunteer basis — community service, Jared had guessed with a smirk at the corner of his mouth, and he might be right — but still. He’s a high draft pick with NHL experience, was one of the Calder finalists his rookie season. They can definitely learn from him.

“What,” Jared says. “You want to learn how to be drunk and belligerent or do you want to check off the DUI while you’re still a minor?”

Marcus is close enough to overhear them. Raf doesn’t know if Jared realised that, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Every day he’s got new chirps for Marcus, and he’s a pretty quick guy with a sharp tongue it’s funny to listen to if you’re not on the receiving end of it. Raf never has been, beyond a few chips he knows are light-hearted, affectionate, the kind he gets from teammates. They get re-used a lot though — Raf’s too serious, Raf’s a picky eater, Raf needs to unclench — whereas the only one Jared reuses for Marcus is his arrest record. He’s also insulted practically every aspect of his appearance, his car, his teaching, his clothing choices. He never seems to run out of them. Raf wonders how much time he spends thinking them up, but maybe it just comes naturally to him in a way it never has for Raf.

“Jared, he’s right—” Raf says.

“Or maybe how to get fired by your agent by the time you hit twenty,” Jared continues. “He could probably teach us that too.”

“My agent hasn’t fired me,” Marcus snaps. He seems to rise to the bait every time. It’s probably why Jared keeps doing this. They always say that about bullies, that they’re just looking for a reaction, and Jared’s never really seemed like a bully to Raf, but — Raf doesn’t know.

“Hear he’s thinking long and hard about it,” Jared says. “Would suck to lose an agent that high profile. Doesn’t he handle Chapman and Lourdes?”

“You seem to know a lot about me, Matheson,” Marcus snaps. “Obsessed much?”

Jared gives him a bored look. “I live in Calgary,” he points out. “It’s kind of hard not to hear all the stories about the ‘future of the franchise’ fucking up off the ice even more than he does on it.”

Raf has a feeling that if Marcus wasn’t on skates he would have stomped off. Angrily skating away doesn’t have the same impact.

“Jared,” Raf says quietly.

Jared blows out a breath. “Okay, he’s not _that_ bad on the ice,” he says.

“Jared,” Raf repeats.

“He might even be good,” Jared says. “Whatever.”

Marcus is across the rink now, face red, humiliated looking, and Raf has a bad feeling about this. It’s not smart to bait a guy who got arrested for punching someone in the face, and Jared’s not stupid.

“Well, it was an Oilers fan,” Jared says dismissively when Raf points that out. “I get the urge.”

“Are you defending him?” Raf asks incredulously.

“No!” Jared says, and, strangely, he goes as red as Marcus did.

*

Jared doesn’t stop chirping Marcus, and Marcus doesn’t stop reacting, but sometime after the first week it starts to change, and Raf can’t really figure out how, just that it feels different.

Jared’s insulting Marcus’ car again. Raf doesn’t know if he’s run out of new chirps or if it’s just really easy to chirp it. It kind of is. Marcus has the kind of car they make Hot Wheels of, a flashy red convertible that makes zero sense for Calgary a good nine months of the year. It probably cost more than both Raf’s parents make in a year.

“Yeah, like you wouldn’t jump in for a ride the second I asked you,” Marcus snaps, as usual, but weirdly Jared goes red, then, like it’s contagious, Marcus does too. Raf gets that it’s innuendo, but considering it feels like half of the guys his age speak in innuendo all the time, try to top one another with it, it’s a little weird something that tame has them both blushing. It wasn’t even very  _good_ innuendo.

“I was not blushing,” Jared says when Raf mentions it after Marcus shuffles off looking embarrassed. It’s far from the first time that’s happened, but like Raf said, it feels different.

“Okay,” Raf says peaceably. “But Marcus was.”

“He was?” Jared blurts, then, “Obviously he wasn’t. You’re imagining things.”

“You’re blushing again,” Raf points out.

“Really, really active imagination,” Jared says, rubbing his hands over his cheeks surreptitiously, like he can hide it that way.

“My mom always said that,” Raf says, even though she didn’t, because Jared seems genuinely embarrassed, and Raf’s not sure why he is, but he doesn’t actually want to embarrass him, the way Jared always seems to want to embarrass Marcus. Marcus is kind of asking for it anyway, not just because it’s easy, with the ammo that’s public knowledge and the way he gets riled up whenever Jared says anything, but because he keeps drifting back into Jared’s orbit every time they’re in the same place. Raf’s pretty sure Jared wouldn’t follow Marcus around just to be mean to him — like Raf said, he’s not a bully, not really — but Marcus is always around anyway.

Everything is suddenly a lot more and a lot less weird, all at once.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to um,” Raf says. “Take a ride?”

“Raf!” Jared hisses.

“It’s a nice car,” Raf says.

“It’s a stupid car,” Jared says. “Stupid and flashy and useless.”

Raf is not sure if they are talking about the car. He wasn’t from the start, but he’s especially unsure now, because those seem like adjectives Jared would use for both Marcus and his car.

“Anyway, he wouldn’t ask,” Jared mumbles.

There is no way they are talking about the car.

“I’m uh,” Raf says, glances over to where Marcus is staring a hole in the back of Jared’s head. “I’m pretty sure he would.”


	150. Andy/Derek; Plans

“I have a plan,” Derek says, two days before Andy’s birthday. Andy doesn’t think he was supposed to hear — he’s talking to Gerard a good ten feet away, and only accidentally caught Dan’s question about what they’re going to do for Andy’s birthday, which falls on a rare day off. And Derek has a plan.

Andy doesn’t know if there are four scarier words in the English language. The words are fine in general: if it was Coach saying them when they were down 2-1, though he’d probably say ‘plan of attack’, that’d be good. But it’s Derek, and Derek and plans are trouble. 

Derek and plans can involve minor crimes (drunk and disorderly, public nudity, breaking and entering — though in his defence it was Andy’s apartment they were locked out of), pranks that end in retaliation more often than not, because all their teammates know Derek’s the first one to suspect, and when Derek has plans involving Andy, allergic reactions and once a sprained thumb no one wanted to explain to the team doc, less because it was scandalous, though Dr. Wesley’s got to be in his seventies and reminds Andy of his grandpa, so it was, but more because it was embarrassing.

Andy doesn’t like plans. Well, Andy does like plans, a lot more than Derek does, actually. Andy just doesn’t like Derek’s plans, because Derek’s plans are dangerous.

Andy not really exaggerating to say he wakes up on the morning of his birthday kind of terrified.

Derek’s side of the bed’s empty, and cool enough when he reaches out that he must’ve gotten up awhile ago. Andy’s afraid of a rehash of the breakfast in bed attempt, but he can’t smell anything burning, only the faint smell of coffee that grows stronger as he pads out to the kitchen, looking around warily before pouring himself a cup.

Derek comes in before he’s finished his coffee, melting snowflakes in his hair and a paper bag in his arms. Andy looks suspiciously at the bag while Derek takes off the seventeen layers he’s wearing, even though it isn’t far below zero out. The bag doesn’t move, and it smells good, so Andy hopefully — maybe naively — decides it’s just breakfast.

“Happy birthday Bowie,” Derek says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Brought you breakfast.”

Maybe Andy wasn’t being naive? Breakfast is a cheddar scone stuffed with eggs, ham and cheese, and Derek doesn’t say a single thing about how much butter is in a single scone while Andy eats it and Derek eats his own scrambled eggs and salmon, nudging his own scone over when Andy looks at it hopefully. Andy’s not letting his guard down yet, but —

But it’s hard not to let it down when breakfast is followed by chilling on the couch for a few hours, Derek ditching his morning workout to watch old episodes of The Simpsons with him, followed by lunch at the place down the block Andy can’t get enough of. It feels like a normal day off but with less being dragged to the gym, and honestly, that means so far it’s the best birthday Andy’s had in years.

When lunch is followed by a nap and then a walk around the park, Derek once again in seventeen layers, Andy in a light coat and a hat Derek forced on his head, Andy starts to think maybe the plan fell through. The closest to making a big deal out of his birthday is Derek insisting on buying him a cupcake from a nearby bakery, and letting Andy pick what take-out they’re getting, even though Andy picked last time.

It’s a really good day.

“I thought you had a plan,” Andy says after dinner and more TV and some cuddling, and when Derek frowns, “I heard you talking to Dan about it.”

“I did!” Derek says. “My plan was to do all things you like for your birthday and keep it chill.”

“That…doesn’t sound like you,” Andy says.

“Hey!” Derek says, then, almost immediately, “Okay, Riley may have suggested that when I told him my plan.”

That sounds much more believable. Andy’s going to have to thank Dan tomorrow.

“It was a good plan,” Andy says.

Derek grins. “I may have some…bedroom plans, though.”

Andy feels terrified again.

“Hurting my feelings, Bowie,” Derek says, but he looks more amused than hurt. “Low impact plan. No chance of injury.”

“You jinxed it,” Andy says.

“I totally jinxed it,” Derek agrees.

Derek ends up banging his head on the headboard later, but it’s just a bump, and as far as injuries go that’s pretty minor. Andy considers the day a success.


	151. Thomas, Sandro; chirp chirp chirp

Sandro’s not really in a hanging around the net sort of role. Well, except for tonight. Thomas doesn’t know if it’s because his coach knew about their friendship, easy to know about, after all those Habs PR vids, or Sandro took it upon himself, but tonight, Sandro’s ass is in Thomas’ blue paint more than it should be. He’s in the blue paint more than anyone is, excepting Thomas, and that’s including his own defenders in net front scrambles.

Thomas is a little afraid, at first, about a repeat of other times, the way guys used information about Thomas they’d earned through trust, turned around and threw that trust in his face. Sandro knows more about Thomas than all of them combined, and Thomas is — Thomas doesn’t think Sandro would do that, but he’s heard the things Sandro’s said on the ice before to opponents, he knows he doesn’t censor himself. Why start now?

He’s your friend, Thomas reminds himself, and Sandro reminds him of that too, because he chirps Thomas every time he’s within chirping distance, which is, as Thomas said, often, but it’s all light, the sort of chirps he’d throw if they were in a Duel, playing a game of cards, if they were still teammates.  Thomas’ yoga, Thomas’ flat ass, Thomas’ obsession with cue cards, his poor taste in Anton — phrased in a way that doesn’t make their relationship obvious, which is the biggest sign that Sandro’s censoring himself, wary either of mics or teammates, Canadiens and Sharks.

Thomas is so grateful.

Thomas is not grateful enough not to use his stick to trip Sandro when he wanders into his crease the next shift. It’s Thomas’ crease. Sandro wasn’t even supposed to be in it when he was a Hab, and he memorably took Thomas’ ankle out one of the times he was.

The ref doesn’t notice Sandro stumble, which is good. Refs tend to frown on tripping, and some goalies can get away with it, but Thomas doesn’t tend to be one of them.

“You motherfucker,” Sandro says, sounding a little annoyed when he gets up, but also kind of amused.

“I’m telling Sylvie you swore at me,” Thomas says serenely.

“You fake innocent motherfucker,” Sandro says, more annoyed than amused now, and the ref, either catching the words or the tone or just sensing trouble broiling after the whistle, skates in with a, “He bothering you?”

“He’s harmless,” Thomas says, and Sandro sputters, more offended by that than anything else Thomas has said.

“Back to your bench,” the ref says to Sandro, and Sandro glowers at Thomas on his way back.

“I can’t believe you called me harmless,” he grumbles after the game. Sylvie, under Sandro’s arm, quirks a smile at Thomas. Thomas feels guilty, cutting into the time they have, but Sandro invited him, and, when Thomas spoke to her after, Sylvie insisted.

“You’d rather I told the ref, what?” Thomas asks. “That you weren’t?”

“Yes!” Sandro says. “I have a reputation to uphold!”

Sylvie snorts.

“Sandro swore at me,” Thomas says to her, because a promise is a promise.

Sylvie gasps with fake exasperation, and Sandro looks caught out for a moment before they start laughing at him.


	152. Andreas/Luke, Dave; line in the sand

Andreas doesn’t tell him until it’s over.

Dave’s furious. Andreas knew he would be, knew, if they had been together, he would have had a right to tell Andreas to end it. There’s a reason he didn’t tell him. Now there still is, but he can’t deal with Luke right now, won’t be able to call him up tomorrow if Dave asks, so the truth comes out.

“How long was this going on?” Dave asks.

Andreas swallows.

“I’m going to regret asking this, aren’t I,” Dave says.

“Over a year,” Andreas says. “I didn’t mean to, I—”

“Aw fuck,” Dave says. “Okay. Chardonnay or Cab Sauv?”

Andreas rubs his face.

“Buffon also sent me a bottle of scotch,” Dave says. “Good shit. I’ve been saving it.”

“Let’s go with that,” Andreas says.

“Turn your ringer off, you’re getting interrogated,” Dave says, and Andreas does.

*

“How the fuck did I not know this?” Dave asks, a few drinks in. “That guy you were seeing in a couple months ago?”

“Luke,” Andreas says.

“And when—” Dave says.

Dave doesn’t even need to finish for Andreas to know he’s talking about his wife’s fiftieth; the way Dave implied that if his boyfriend missed just one more important thing Dave would judge him forever, the way Luke didn’t have much choice, playing in Dallas that night. Andreas dumped that boyfriend for missing yet another thing for work. Told Dave about it, who approved. Told Luke about it, who laughed.

It’s not really funny anymore, not when, fundamentally, Andreas has done the same thing, but in reality this time.

“Luke,” Andreas says.

“I can’t believe you didn’t goddamn tell me,” Dave mutters.

“You know I keep my private life private,” Andreas says.

“Your private life isn’t private when it involves one of my clients,” Dave says, but more gently than Andreas might have expected. Andreas must be wearing his feelings on his face. He doesn’t even know what they are right now, really, sadness or exhaustion or – defeat, maybe.

“It doesn’t anymore,” Andreas says.

*

“Do you want me to ask him to find another agent?” Dave asks, too many drinks later. They both have to work tomorrow. Jeanine will be annoyed Dave’s home so late. More annoyed that he’ll probably come home stinking of whiskey.

“No!” Andreas says.

“Can you work with him?” Dave asks.

“I don’t know,” Andreas says.

“I’ll ask him to find another agent,” Dave says.

“That’s not fair,” Andreas says. “You can’t just ask him to get another—”

“Shit’s not fair, Andreas,” Dave says. “You get me in the divorce. Even if I’m fucking pissed at you right now.”

Andreas closes his eyes. “I’ll be fine, I just need some—”

“I’ll deal with him directly,” Dave says. “For however long you need.”

“Thank you,” Andreas manages.

“As long as that’s six months or less,” Dave continues. “Then I’m referring him to Giles.”

“You can’t do that to him,” Andreas says. Giles makes Dave look like a softhearted sap. Not that Dave isn’t, Andreas has seen him with his kids, with some of the players he treats like his kids, he’s just generally good at turning it off at work.

“I’ll do what I want,” Dave says. “He broke your heart.”

“I broke his,” Andreas says, because he knows that’s true.

“It’s not one or the other,” Dave says. “You don’t beat heartbreak by ending shit first.”

“I know,” Andreas says.

Dave’s quiet. “You okay, kid?” he asks.

Andreas shrugs, because he’s not sure what to say.

“Yeah,” Dave says, like Andreas spoke. “I know.”


	153. Andy/Derek, Dan; adjustment

It’s strange that Andy knows Dan’s schedule so well he’ll know the second he’ll be free. Post-game he heads out around the same time as they do, the commute short now that the Sens have moved to LeBreton. Traffic the way it is, he’ll probably walk it, because it isn’t too cold, so he should have gotten home about ten minutes ago.

All Andy has to adjust for is the hour difference. And being over 2000 kilometres away. That one’s more of an adjustment, along with a roster he barely knows anyone, which he hasn’t had to deal with since his rookie year; weather that reminds him of what he grew up in, though Ottawa’s made him soft, because he doesn’t remember it being this cold; living alone, which he hasn’t done in years. 

Phones, which he’s used to avoiding, but has gotten glued to: texts constantly from a lot of the team – former team – and Derek in particular. Calls: Derek again, a couple times a day, short ones, then at least every other day, when they get a chance, long Skype sessions in front of their respective laptops. He’s lucky their phone plan has Canada wide calling, or him and Derek would be out a lot of money right now. He’s still got his Ottawa number. He doesn’t know if that’s going to change. It’s all — it’s an adjustment.

“How do you do it?” Andy asks.

“Hi Andy, nice to hear from you,” Dan says. “Do you mean with Marc? Or when I got traded?”

“The diver,” Andy asks. He kind of wants to know the answer to the other as well, but not as much. Changing cities is — well, an adjustment, like he says. But he keeps finding himself looking over to tell Derek something funny and needing to text him instead. Waiting for Derek to tease him, or make those awful smoothies in the morning, or tuck his feet under Andy’s thighs while they watch TV. Instead he’s eating what he likes, watching TV with his own feet tucked under himself, not getting teased, feeling very alone. “And hi.”

“Hi,” Dan says. Andy can hear him grinning. “Derek didn’t tell you what I answered the last three times he asked me?”

“Derek asked you?” Andy asks. “Three times?”

“I think the first time was a genuine question and since then he’s just been complaining,” Dan says. “But yeah. More than three times, honestly. Practically daily. I think Michaud is going to scratch him the next time he interrupts practice being all tragic.”

“I miss you guys,” Andy says.

“We miss you too, buddy,” Dan says. “Cary is pretty much unbearable without you.”

“You say he’s unbearable all the time,” Andy says.

“Like you don’t say it too,” Dan says.

“I miss him,” Andy says.

“Yeah,” Dan says. “I know. Better than anyone.”

Andy bites his lip from saying that Dan doesn’t, that Lapointe’s only two hours away, that they play each other five times a season, while Winnipeg and Ottawa already blew through their two before Andy was traded. It’s hard for them to see each other, not impossible, and Andy doesn’t think he’s ever hated being on a team in playoff contention more than he does right now, because he’s not sure when that’s going to end. Then they have the summer together and it just starts all over again.

“So how do you do it?” Andy asks.

He’s disappointed when Dan doesn’t have any magic fixes, ways of making this bearable, but he’s not surprised.


	154. David; naming conventions (daemon AU)

Aurelio wasn’t always Aurelio.

Well, Aurelio was always Aurelio, of course, the same daemon that appeared when David was born, fretfully clinging to David, never further than David could reach. Even when he took flight, hopping around as a sparrow, testing his wings, he was always close enough for David to reach out and touch, and he never stayed up long. David doesn’t remember this, of course. Neither does Aurelio. But it was always true.

Cassandra, the silver fox of David’s father, as pretty and sleek as she was distant, named him Diana. Aurelio doesn’t know if she didn’t realise he was a boy, or did and just refused to acknowledge it. They both seem equally likely.

Mary Anne’s daemon Angelo is the one who gave him the name Aurelio, and Aurelio holds onto it, tight-fisted. Mary Anne calls him that, and Angelo, and David too, when no one is around, but no one else. No one even knows about it. It’s his.

Aurelio likes being a gecko the best. Small and unobtrusive, easy for David to tuck under his collar or in the front pocket of the shirts he asks his mother to buy for that exact purpose, Aurelio curled safe and comfortable against his chest.

No one calls him Diana, which he’s thankful for. No one calls him anything, really, except for David and Mary Anne and Angelo, and he doesn’t like that. David’s classmates refer to him as ‘her’ when they refer to him as anything at all, and David’s teacher gave him detention after he refused to tell her Aurelio’s name, called his parents. Aurelio doesn’t know what they said, but she didn’t ask again. She just called Aurelio ‘her’ too.

The first time David calls him ‘Gecko’, it’s a relief. A nickname, not a proper one, but then, names haven’t been ironclad for Aurelio since he came into existence, and he’s not really sure what a proper name should be. David likes David, he says, when Aurelio asks. He doesn’t like Dave, or Davey, like his father sometimes calls him. He knows what his name is.

Aurelio likes Gecko. He likes being a gecko, and he likes that people start calling him that, even when he isn’t in his gecko body, because it makes more sense to him than ‘her’. People don’t usually give their daemons nicknames, but it’s less loaded than people whose daemons are the same sex as them. There are whispers about those people.

David doesn’t want to be one of those people. Aurelio knows this. There’s nothing he can do about it, but he can make it so David doesn’t have to face it, doesn’t have to hide a flinch every time someone refers to Aurelio as ‘her’, every time his mother hesitates before referring to Aurelio as anything at all, even every time Mary Anne calls Aurelio handsome. He lives inside the gecko skin more and more as David grows, lives inside the name as much, and by the time David’s drafted, he almost forgets he was ever named anything but Gecko.

Jake Lourdes changes that. He changes a lot of things.


	155. Matt/Aaron, Marc/Dan; vets and rookies

Lapointe finds out from Trembs. They’re friends,  kind of, maybe in some sort of Marc solidarity. Also, according to Trembs, he had a one night thing with Riley’s sister after the Leafs won the Cup — unfortunately right before Matt joined the roster, and another one’s not looking likely any time soon — so they’ve got the Riley connection too. Whatever it is, every time the Leafs play the Habs, they gossip like teenagers during warm-ups. And apparently what they gossiped about was Matt this time.

“You’re the worst person I know,” Matt tells him.

“I love you too, Matthew,” Trembs says.

“You tell him about Aaron?” Matt says, then, at Trembs’ guilty face, “We’re not actually out, asshole.”

“He’s not going to say anything,” Trembs says, glove on Matt’s shoulder, then when Matt shrugs it off, jerky, “He’s not.”

Lapointe sends him a text assuring him of that after the game, and Matt chews his lip, debates telling Aaron about it if it isn’t going to go further than that. Does in the end, mentions the former teammate angle, the promise not to tell, and Aaron shrugs over it. Matt’s guessing close to half the Leafs know about them by now, and a bunch of others suspect. Aaron’s gotten kind of zen about the Leafs, and apparently former Leafs, if not anyone else. He knows better than anyone that team’s team.

Matt mostly forgets it for months, but apparently the Riley-Lapointes live in Toronto in the offseason. Matt increasingly does too, though he spends a token amount of time in Fredericton so his parents don’t kill him. Training’s better here. More to do. Plus, you know. Aaron. 

If they both spent their offseasons in their hometowns, they’d be in the same town maybe a third of the year, and only if they were both lucky enough to make the playoffs. The Jays have been, lately. Not so much the Leafs, so it’d be more like a quarter. A quarter, with them both traveling half the time, hoping their schedules align. They do okay long-distance, but that’s a bit much. Matt’s dad will quit grumbling about abandonment eventually.

He gets a text from Trembs, asking if he minds going to a Jays game with them, arranging a meeting with Aaron after, and it’s kind of weird, because Matt doesn’t actually know them that well. They played together, yeah, and Matt actually played on Riley’s line during some good stretches, but they were in this little bubble of their own, and Matt was honestly kind of intimidated by them. Or a lot intimidated. Lapointe still intimidates him, between his general demeanour and the way he’s become synonymous with hockey players who like dudes.

Still, Trembs is probably his best friend — unfortunately — and he still keeps in touch with both of them, so Matt gives him a thumbs up, buys three tickets, because it always feels weird getting them from Aaron, and double checks with Aaron before the game.

“You mind meeting a couple guys after?” Matt asks.

“Sure,” Aaron says. “Friends, or—”

“Marc Lapointe and Dan Riley,” Matt says. “Or like, Riley-Lapointe I guess?” He’s still going to call them by their last names like he did when they were on the Leafs. It feels weird otherwise. “Lapointe’s the one Trembs told? And him and Riley are—”

“I know who they are,” Aaron says, looking amused. “C’mon, Matt.”

“You weren’t into hockey then,” Matt says.

“Yeah, but I  _was_  into dudes,” Aaron says. “So I noticed when anyone playing in the Big Four came out. And they’re still kind of a big deal.”

“I guess,” Matt says.

In the second inning Lapointe’s up on the Jumbotron, and there’s a mix of cheers and boos. Fans were split on whether management fucked the Leafs long term, trading Lapointe, or whether it was better to get rid of him, for play reasons – though he’s been great on the Habs – or, Matt guesses, personal ones. Specifically personal distaste about his life choices. He doesn’t like to think of what those Leafs fans would say about him. Matt pulls his baseball hat — no team logo, especially Jays, he’s not in that deep — down over his forehead and hopes no one saw him.

Thankfully there are no more Jumbotron moments, and the game’s an engrossing one, the Jays and the White Sox trading the lead practically every inning. The Jays take the lead again in the eighth, hold onto from there, and the conversation with Riley and Lapointe is fairly casual, Riley watching the game as closely as Matt is, so they can comfortably ignore one another while Lapointe checks the Expos score on his phone — another thing he’s got in common with Trembs — so it’s less awkward than Matt expected, even when Aaron comes out to meet them after the game.

Riley’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet when he shakes Aaron’s hand. “Dude, you were awesome,” he says. “That double in the eighth inning? You broke the game wide open.”

“He is a huge Jays fan,” Lapointe says to Matt, longsuffering.

“I feel you,” Matt says, giving him a longsuffering look right back, though Aaron’s not so much a Jays fan as…well. A Jay, so. Matt doesn’t know if that deserves more or less suffering. Like, at least Aaron didn’t choose it. On the other hand, if Matt cheers against them he is actively rooting against his boyfriend’s happiness, so he’s torn.

And Aaron’s happy now, grinning as Riley goes back in time, enthusing about last year’s postseason. Aaron was pretty standout, Matt’s got to admit.

Lapointe’s squinting at him. “You are grinning like a Jays fan,” he says.

“Just a fan of Aaron,” Matt says honestly, and Lapointe’s ‘aww’ is a little mocking.


	156. David, Mary Anne, Robbie, Oleg, Caps; mother’s trip

David doesn’t know why Oleg keeps bringing up the mother’s trip with him. Every time he has to demur, and he resents it, that Oleg forces him to talk about it, that Oleg, for once, doesn’t leave well enough alone.

“Your mom isn’t coming,” David tries this year, which is better than last year, when Oleg’s mother had come, so Oleg got to point out his mother was coming all the way from  _Moscow_.

Oleg gives him an unimpressed look. “She is almost seventy. She is in Russia. They are visiting all of July.”

The girls had apparently put their feet down about going to Russia at all this summer, complaining about becoming social pariahs — David is fairly sure it was Sofia who taught them the term, so they could present a united front, because there’s no way Tatiana’s old enough to know it herself — and so Oleg’s parents are coming to them, first Oleg’s family, then Dmitry’s. Oleg’s clearly looking forward to it, though David’s seen Maria’s mouth go flat whenever it’s mentioned. He knows better to mention that to Oleg, especially because he’s selfishly happy that Oleg will be staying stateside all summer.

Still, it leaves him without much of an argument, so he’s stuck with the truth. David doesn’t want to invite his mother, doubts she’d come even if he did invite her, and he reluctantly admits as much, because it’s better that than listen to Oleg continue to attempt to convince him. He hadn’t mentioned that last year, the year before, but Oleg doesn’t even blink, like it’s something he already knew. 

“Mikko’s sister is coming instead of his mother,” Oleg says.

“I don’t have a sister,” David says.

“Trevor’s mother-in-law is as well,” Oleg counters. Trevor’s mom died last year, David remembers. He missed two games to go home for the funeral, and the team enclosed him when he got back. David hadn’t been sure what to say.

“I don’t have a mother-in-law either,” David says, and flushes when Oleg raises an eyebrow at him.

“You should bring someone,” Oleg says.

“I have no one to bring,” David says.

“David,” Oleg says.

“Don’t, okay?” David says. “I have no one to bring.”

*

David doesn’t know why, but the conversation comes to mind during a phone call with Andrea, who called to ask him about an upcoming game in Ottawa, checking if he’d be free to visit. Doesn’t just come to mind, but leaves his mouth, which is mortifying.

“Invite my mom,” Andrea says. “She basically raised you.”

“I can’t ask her that,” David says. “That’s — I can’t ask her for that.”

“David,” Andrea says. “She would cry she would be so happy. Do it.”

David isn’t going to do it. Whatever Andrea says, it’s an imposition, one that will raise eyebrows and questions and —

David finds himself blurting it out over dinner in Ottawa. Mary Anne starts to cry, and while David’s panicking and apologising for asking, she agrees to come.

*

Robbie’s mom is short, even in comparison to Robbie, and talkative, maybe not in comparison to Robbie, but in comparison to most people, and every time David sees Mary Anne in the huddle of mothers — and sisters, and mothers-in-law, and, he supposes, former nannies — Robbie’s mom is right beside her, usually along with Raf and Elliott’s moms. Georgie’s mom, after the first day. Robbie’s mom and Georgie’s moms kept eyeing each other at first, which David guesses makes sense, considering, but on day two they sit together for breakfast and Robbie looks happy about it it’s impossible not to notice.

“You look happy,” David says. He realises, as he says it, that he hasn’t seen Robbie look like this a lot, then feels bad that he didn’t notice.

“I can’t believe there’s a mom clique,” Robbie says. “And that my mom’s part of it. Or, I guess not mom clique? Mom and—”

“She’s a mom,” David says. “She’s just not mine. Your mom and Georgie’s mom seem to be getting along.”

“I want you to know I’m totally aware you’re changing the subject to avoid telling me more about your secret not-mom,” Robbie says, then before David can protest that it’s not a secret, it’s just  _private_ , “But yeah. Sharon’s an awesome lady, I’m glad they’re buds again.”

“Again?” David asks.

Robbie frowns. “Wanna tell me about your not-mom?” he asks.

“No,” David says.

“Cool,” Robbie says. “So let’s just sit here and not talk about things now.”

“Fine,” David says.

“Fine,” Robbie repeats.

Elliott sighs loudly over his eggs. “Raptors look good,” he says.

“They do,” David agrees.

“Way better than the Celtics,” Elliott says, to Robbie’s squawk. David only knows where they are in relation to the Pistons — two more wins, with a game in hand — though he won’t say that out loud.

*

“So she babysat you?” Robbie asks over lunch. David supposes his mom told him.

David exhales through his nose. “She was my nanny,” he says.

“What’s the difference?” Robbie asks.

“She spent more time with me than my parents,” David snaps. “By a lot.”

David doesn’t know why it is he always ends up telling Robbie things he doesn’t tell anyone else, not Oleg or Kiro, not Jake.

“Oh,” Robbie says, then nothing else.

“I saw my dad like maybe an hour a night,” Robbie says after a minute of awkward silence. “And only if he came home in time for dinner, which he usually didn’t. I barely noticed the difference when I went to boarding school.”

It’s a peace offering, David knows.

“I’m sorry,” David says.

Robbie shrugs. “It is what it is,” he says.

*

David doesn’t know if it’s a peace offering or not when Robbie manuevres them to sit with his mom and Mary Anne at dinner tonight. With over fifty people, between players and personnel and everyone’s mom, even Coach’s, they had to take over the entire back of the restaurant, and even that’s a tight fit. They’re crammed four people to a table that probably should only fit two, Robbie kneeing David under the table every time he fidgets, which is frequently.

David isn’t entirely sure what to say. It’s gotten easier, talking to Mary Anne, though that’s been in Ottawa, in her house, surrounded by her family or alone. He doesn’t have trouble talking to Robbie, and he’s sure he’d be able to find something to say to Robbie’s mom, but all of it together has him speechless, feeling shy. The Lombardis thankfully talk enough for all four of them, Robbie’s mom peppering Mary Anne with questions about her family, what she does, and, eventually, what David was like as a kid.

“Shy,” she says, and shoots him a smile he remembers, a little teasing, but never mocking. “Quiet. Already loved hockey more than anything.”

“Don’t recognise the kid you’re talking about, no way that’s Chaps,” Robbie says, and David kicks  _him_  under the table for once. 

“Accident,” he says, when Robbie gives him an outraged look.

“Very serious,” Mary Anne says, “But sweet.”

David doesn’t recognise that kid either.

“Well, you raised this kid right,” Robbie says, wrapping an arm around David’s shoulder and kicking David back when he kicks him again.

“I’m older than you,” David mutters.

Mary Anne just smiles. “I think so too,” she says, and David ducks his head, but he’s sure they can all see his cheeks flaming red.


	157. Seb, Si; schemes

Marguerite has not seen her son in the three days since school has let out. This is not a sign of trouble, exactly, because she knows exactly where he is, and his absence is something she knows she’ll have to get used to when Sebastien is off in the Q this fall — fingers crossed he’ll be drafted somewhere reasonably close, not in Moncton or Halifax or, God forbid, Charlottetown — but it does mean that Suzanne and Joseph have been enduring him for three days, which she imagines is entirely too much Sebastien if he isn’t your flesh and blood. Sometimes even if he is.

She doubts she’ll be able to hustle him out of there if he still feels welcome, and Suzanne and Joseph are soft touches with him. She stops by the grocery store on her way over, though, because if she knows Sebastien’s appetite — and she and the grocery bills know it all too well — he’s probably half emptied their cupboards by now.

“Wondering where your son is?” Joseph asks with a grin when he opens the door, and helps her carry the groceries inside after unsuccessfully attempting to refuse them.

“Just wanted to make sure he hasn’t burned your house down,” Marguerite says.

“There was only a very small fire,” Joseph says, and the scary thing is that she doesn’t even know if he’s joking. He starts to unpack the groceries, makes a face at the cottage cheese.

“I know,” she says. “But he loves it. And hopefully it’ll keep him from eating all of your food.” Temporarily, at least. “Are they out?”

“They’re upstairs,” Joseph says. “Haven’t come down since breakfast. I haven’t heard a thing from Si’s room either, so they might be dead.”

Simon being quiet isn’t particularly unusual, but  _Sebastien_?

“Or they’re scheming,” she predicts. And by them, she means Sebastien.

“Or they’re scheming,” Joseph agrees. “Trying to figure out a way to hide Simon in Seb’s luggage when he goes?”

“Very possible,” she says. She isn’t quite sure what they’re going to do without one another when he leaves, and she’s been trying not to think about it, because it makes her heartsick. They’ve been inseparable for over ten years now, and she worries about the distance, knows that, whatever they may think now, it may end up being more than geographical. She’s sure they believe otherwise, but they’re sixteen. At sixteen, the future is so far away.

“Mind if I check on them?” she asks.

Joseph waves a negligent hand in the direction of upstairs, and she finds Simon’s door shut, which seems to support the scheming theory. There’s a muffled ‘come in’, when she knocks, the two of them looking up from where they’re shoulder to shoulder in front of Simon’s computer. They don’t look guilty, so that’s good. Sebastien’s gotten good — too good — at dissembling lately, but Simon still wears everything on his face as much as when he was six and coming clean about a cookie heist she knew Sebastien had been the ringleader of.  

“You behaving, Sebastien?” Marguerite asks.

“Ma _man_ ,” Sebastien groans, eyes flicking over to Simon, like she’s embarrassing him in front of him. Which is ridiculous. It’s Si. “You could have called.”

“Joseph said you started a fire?” Marguerite says.

“It was a small fire,” Sebastien mumbles.

Dear Christ, he actually started a fire. 

“Was it a small fire?” she asks Simon.

Simon winces, just a little. “No property damage,” he says, which is a relief, but not an answer. He’d make a good lawyer.

“No more fires,” Marguerite says. “And come home tonight. Your dad has almost forgotten he has a son.”

“Ma,” Sebastien argues.

“Simon can stay over if it’s okay with Joseph and his mom,” she adds, and he grumbles, but it’s mostly for show.

“Coffee?” Joseph asks, when she comes downstairs, and her hands are around a mug when the boys clatter downstairs. Well. Simon walks like a civilized person. Sebastien clatters.

“Why are you still here?” Sebastien whines from the kitchen doorway.

“Hey,” Joseph says mildly, but Sebastien isn’t listening, head and shoulders in the fridge without so much as a ‘Joseph may I’.

“Hey, cottage cheese!” Sebastien says, and Joseph grins at her when she blows out an exasperated breath.  


	158. Kiro, David/Jake; HP AU (cont.)

When David sits down across with him with an audible thud, Kirill looks up from his potions textbook immediately. David isn’t the sort of person to make any more noise than he needs to, so David thudding constitutes a possible emergency.

David’s expression constitutes a  _definite_  emergency.

“What’s wrong?” Kirill asks immediately.

“I—” David says. His face is absolutely crimson, eyes wide blue.

“School?” Kirill guesses, when David doesn’t continue. “Quidditch?” Nothing. “Your parents?” Nothing again, and those are the three most likely categories, beyond —

“Lourdes?”

That one very clearly strikes the mark.

“What did Lourdes do now?” Kirill asks, glad it isn’t an actual emergency. David reacts — overreacts — to everything Lourdes does. Lourdes says good morning and David thinks he’s trying to insult him. Lourdes lends him a quill and David decides it’s hexed. Lourdes stares after him with the most blatantly lovelorn look Kirill has ever seen in his entire life, and David is convinced he’s plotting to steal Hufflepuff’s quidditch secrets, because why  _else_  would Jake Lourdes be staring at him all the time? And blushing! The blushing must indicate guilt!

There isn’t a single person at Hogwarts, from the students to the headmaster to the  _ghosts_ , that isn’t aware that Jake Lourdes is utterly in love with David Chapman except, of course, David himself. 

Kirill thinks it’s probably quite mutual, with the amount of time David spends obsessing over everything Lourdes does, consistently reaching the exact opposite conclusion from Lourdes’ behavior than what it very clearly indicates, but he’s equally sure David would implode if Kirill pointed that out, so he’s been waiting for David to figure it out himself.

He has been waiting for a very long time.  

“He kissed me,” David says.

Kirill perks up. He figured it had to happen eventually, that Lourdes would either grow out of his feelings — and it’s become very clear that isn’t happening any time soon, if ever — or act on them. And even David couldn’t be oblivious enough not to figure it out then.

“I don’t know what the fuck he thinks—” David spits.

Kirill frowns. David isn’t usually one to swear.

“—whether he thinks this is going to throw me off for Saturday’s game or—” David’s saying when Kirill tunes back in.

“Wait, what?” Kirill asks. “You think this is…what? A tactic?”

“I mean, what else could it be?” David asks completely seriously, and Kirill’s heart breaks a little. He’s grown accustomed to that feeling, with David.

“Maybe he likes you?” Kirill says. He said he wouldn’t point it out, but since Lourdes kissing him wasn’t enough to convince David that might be the case, his hand has been forced.

David stares at him.

“Generally you kiss someone because you like them,” Kirill says, in case he wasn’t clear enough. “And he definitely likes you.”

“I came because I thought you’d help me, not—” David throws his hands up, which Kirill translates to ‘treacherously refuse to humor my complete denial’, then gets up. He punctuates his exit with a scrape of his chair, which earns them both a glare from Madame Pince, door of the library shutting loudly behind him, which earns Kirill an even sterner glare, like it’s his fault his best friend is an utter lunatic.

Following him wouldn’t do him any good right now, but there’s no way he’ll be able to focus on potions, which he’s bad enough at already without imagining David stalking out to go accuse Lourdes of kissing him for nefarious purposes. Imagining David getting even angrier at Lourdes if Lourdes told him the truth, so firm in his conviction that Lourdes is out for him to realize that yes, Lourdes is absolutely out for him, and if he gets him he’s never letting him go.

Kirill drops his head to groan loudly into his textbook, and doesn’t have the energy to argue when he’s sternly escorted out of the library.


	159. Mike/Liam, Roman; handy

For the record, the sink, like, exploding water is not Liam’s fault.

This time.

Like, he’s 99% sure.

A couple years ago Mike would have just sighed all dramatically and fixed it like he did the dishwasher…and the washing machine…and the sink that other time…but this time after a few hours involving a lot of cursing and banging and Mike trying and failing to keep his hands steady enough and then trying and failing to direct Liam, who has steady hands but not a single handy bone in his body, the sink’s still broken.

Mike looks so frustrated he wants to cry, which makes  _Liam_  want to cry.

“Fuck,” Mike says. “Okay, I’ll call Tom.”

“Roman’s pretty handy,” Liam says. “I’m sure he’d be willing to swing by.”

“I don’t want him to think I can’t do it,” Mike mutters. “I’ll wait until Tom can come down.”

“So we’re just going to go without water until Saturday?” Liam asks. He gets it, he really does, but at some point Mike has to be willing to accept help from someone he doesn’t either share DNA with or fuck on a regular basis. He doesn’t have to like it — and he doesn’t like it even when it  _is_  family or Liam — but he has to do it. “Five days without a sink. That’s your plan?”

Mike’s jaw gets extra stubborn.

“I’m calling a plumber and you have to deal with a stranger in your house, or I’m calling Roman,” Liam says. “Your call.”

Liam asks Roman during practice. Mike didn’t actually deign to make a call, but Mike hates strangers, and Mike especially hates strangers in his house. Roman, who’s reached the level of occasional dinner guest, which is almost unprecedented for people not in Mike or Liam’s immediate families, has reached Not Stranger status. Liam can do the math.

“You pay me in cookies and I’m there,” Roman says.

“He’s willing to be paid in cookies,” Liam tells Mike when he gets home from practice, and Mike rolls his eyes but he makes a batch that night, and doesn’t let Liam have even one after the game, which is ridiculous. Liam burned a lot of calories and got two points, he deserves a cookie.

*

“I can’t believe you fucking snuck down and got a cookie while I was sleeping,” Mike says. “What the fuck, Fitzgerald?”

“You counted the cookies?” Liam asks. “Seriously?” He’s not surprised, he just wants to point out that Mike is ridiculous.

Mike scowls at him.

“There are only twenty-three cookies,” Mike says to Roman when he swings by, instead of something like ‘hello’ or ‘welcome’. “Because Fitzgerald’s a thief.”

“I knew that about him,” Roman says.

“I am right here,” Liam complains.

“You’re going to be my assistant,” Roman says. “For eating my cookies.”

“Twenty-three for you and one for me is not fair division of cookie labour,” Liam says.

“You know Harry’s going to eat them all before I have more than one,” Roman says, which is probably true. Liam doesn’t even think Harry’s got a sweet tooth, he’ll just do it because they’re Roman’s and it’ll bug him.

They have a super weird relationship. Like. Liam’s not talking about the three people thing, just Harry Chalmers, being weird.

*

To Liam’s complete lack of surprise, once Roman gets under the sink Mike surveys from five feet away, arms crossed, like some sink bouncer. It’d probably make a plumber super uneasy, but Roman doesn’t seem bothered by it, and Liam thinks it’s funny, Mike glowering like he’s waiting for Roman to make a wrong move.

Roman doesn’t seem to be making wrong moves, just keeps handing Liam things, tiny metal nuts Liam handles carefully, afraid he’ll drop them and never find them again.

“Hand me the compression nut?” Roman asks, and Liam looks around the counter at everything assembled and then hands him the most likely offender.

“Is this a nut, Fitzy?” Roman asks, poking his head out.

“Yes?” Liam says.

Mike’s giving him a look like he’s answered wrong.

“It looks like a nut,” Liam mutters.

“He always this useless?” Roman asks.

“I’m handing you things!” Liam says, over Mike’s ‘yes’, which Liam is taking a lot of offence to.

“You’re handing me the  _wrong_  things,” Roman says. “Mike, can you pass me a nut and the—”

Mike doesn’t even wait for him to finish before passing a tool over. Liam…is unsure what that tool is called, but what if it’s the wrong one, huh? Maybe Mike and Liam are  _equally_  useless.

“Thanks,” Roman says. “Fitzy, fuck off and let Mike help me.”

“Mike’s not really a helpful person,” Liam says, but Mike hip checks him out of the way.

If Roman notices Mike hands him things a little slowly, or that he struggles to grip one of the small metal…nut…things, glaring at Liam the whole time like if Liam comes over and picks it up for him he’ll kill him, he doesn’t say anything. And Roman’s an observant guy, so he definitely notices. Liam loves him for not saying anything.

“You eat yet?” Mike asks, once Roman comes out from under the sink, tests the water, which is back to not flooding their kitchen. Always a bonus.

“Could always eat again,” Roman says.

Mike nods a bit. “Want a beer?” he asks.

“Sure,” Roman says.

Liam understands basically nothing either of them are saying over lunch, everything all shit he has zero interest in, hardware and quick fixes and whatever the hell.

Liam can’t stop grinning.

 _my boyfriend and your boyfriend are bro bonding and its the cutest thing ive ever seen_ , Liam texts Connie under the table, then considers. _the beardy one_ , he adds, in case Connie needs clarification on which boyfriend he’s referring to.

 _:)_ Connie replies.


	160. Seb, Crane; watch your back

Seb is afraid of no one.

That said, he’s pretty sure the Caps goalie is going to murder him.

“Not the first goalie to want to murder you,” Greenie says.

“Obviously,” Seb says. He’s pretty sure every goalie he’s scored against wanted to murder him. There was the goalie in Colorado who practically did it with his eyes after Seb scored four on him in a 7-1 game. Seb has no idea why they didn’t pull him after the fourth or fifth goal against. He felt a little bad, honestly. Not bad enough not to try — and succeed — at scoring the sixth goal, but bad. And a little sad he didn’t get any hats. That’s the problem with hat tricks in enemy territory.

The other problem in this case is that Seb not only destroyed the two game shut out streak Crane had running up to this game, but did it with style – and a hatless hat trick – and now he’s going to be murdered. It was in the eyes. The Colorado goalie looked like he wanted to kill him with his eyes after that four goal game. Crane looks like he’s going to  _succeed._

“Did you just cross yourself?” Greenie asks.

“Maybe,” Seb says. A little protection can’t hurt.

*

“Stay on the line with me,” Seb says, walking double time to the bus. He could wait for his teammates to form a barrier,

“I mean, you just called me, so.” Si says. “Obviously?”

“I think I’m going to be murdered,” Seb says. “So if I suddenly hang up, call Greenie and tell him I’m dead.”

“Seb, what—” Si says, sounding anxious.

“I scored a hat trick,” Seb says.

“I watched,” Si says, and Seb takes a moment to be distracted by that. Si doesn’t always watch his games, since he works early. He chose a good game to watch.

“It was nice, right?” Seb preens.

“Very nice,” Si says. “What’s this about being murdered?”

“Oh,” Seb says. “I think Crane’s lying in wait for me. For revenge.”

“For God’s sake, Sebastien,” Si says, but stays on the phone with him until Seb’s safely on the bus.

*

It’s Seb’s luck that two weeks later is the All-Star game. His luck again that he ends up on a team with his would-be murderer.

Well, he supposes it’s better than playing against him again. Seb doesn’t want to give him another opportunity.

“I genuinely thought you were going to murder me after my hat trick,” Seb says, after too many drinks the night of the All-Star draft. Beer’s betrayed him. You don’t tell a murderer you’re onto them.

Davies laughs. Davies doesn’t know.

Crane blinks once, slow. “I considered it,” he says, just as slow, and Davies laughs again, like it was a joke.

“Your eyes are disturbing,” Seb tells him. “They’re very…”

“Oh-kay,” Davies says, then swipes Seb’s pint. “Cut off.”

Crane blinks again. Seb has this strange feeling he doesn’t need to. Like a shark or something. Do sharks blink? Crane blinks, but it’s like it’s just for show.

“Murdery,” Seb finishes the thought.

“Murdery isn’t a word,” Crane says.

“They’re  _your_ eyes,” Seb says. It’s not his fault Crane’s eyes don’t have a word in English. Murdery is the closest Seb can get to expressing it.

“My eyes are murdery,” Crane says, very dry. Davies is laughing again.

Seb nods.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Crane says, when Davies moves to another table, leaving Seb alone with him. Seb resists the urge to hysterically call him back. What kind of defence  _is_  he?

“Well that’s good,” Seb says weakly.

“You’re on my team right now,” Crane adds, like that’s the only thing keeping him from it. Like a threat.

Seb laughs, even more weakly, and crosses his fingers that the next time the Lightning play the Capitals, Crane’s backup is in net.


	161. Ryan/Nikolaj; luck

Ryan’s always liked writing the non-hockey based stories the best. That sounds a little odd, possibly, since writing about hockey is his literal career, and he probably would get bored out of his skull if he was reporting on superstitions or pregame meals or fantasy football every day, but it’s a great change of pace. 

It’s also, incidentally, one that generally has the players a lot more willing to talk to him — Ryan has fond memories of Alexander Maximov, usually the most quiet in the Pens locker room, at least until Rousseau came, happily listing every single one of the  _numerous_ superstitions he’d observed their goalie participating in, until said goalie threw his blocker at his head.

Ryan knows he doesn’t have the goodwill in the Sabres room that he did in the Penguins one. Of course he doesn’t — he earned that goodwill in Pittsburgh slowly, presumably going from ‘faceless reporter holding recorder in my face’ to ‘vaguely recognizable reporter holding recorder in my face’ to ‘Ryan Epstein’, to, in a few cases, just ‘Ryan’. That doesn’t happen overnight, and it doesn’t happen without effort — building a strong working relationship with players you occasionally publicly insult is hard: even if they know it’s not personal, Ryan knows a lot of them take it personally anyway.

So Ryan’s hoping this is a good step. Most of the guys already recognize him, and a few greet him by name, but he’s only been here a few months. Best to get stepping, if he’s going to be here awhile, and unfortunately it looks like it.

He finds out about the fantasy football the way he finds out about many things — overhearing players’ private conversations. He’s learned so many things through that route, some huge, though of course he won’t type a word of it unless it’s on the record. 

He’s seen colleagues write about locker room dynamics, spats between players. He hopes the bump in viewership helped when they lost the trust of the franchise they were reporting on. The locker room is the locker room: unless you’ve got a recorder in your face, you should be able to go about your business without worrying some dick will post it on twitter. That shit’s puerile gossip, not reporting.

Ryan guesses fantasy teams might be more in the puerile gossip category than the reporting one, but still. He clears it with his boss, then Sabres PR. There’s close to a solid dozen of Sabres involved, and they’re happy to talk about it, especially because the NFL season’s almost wrapped up, and there are a couple close battles. Except for number one. Number one has apparently been set in stone all season. And for the previous four seasons.

“One year someone’s going to beat Madsen,” Balanchuk says. He doesn’t sound particularly hopeful about it though.

That seems to be the storyline from all the guys: Ryan talks about their own leagues, and his own football knowledge — thanks mom, thanks Ben who covered the Steelers and never shut up about them — gets him some vaguely impressed looks. But basically everything loops back around to Nikolaj Madsen, unexpectedly kicking everyone else’s ass. Carter, who grew up football crazy and opted for hockey only after an ultimatum to pick one from his parents and a lot of painful soul searching, seems particularly disgruntled by it.

“He’s too big a fan,” Madsen says, when Ryan talks to him, saving the best for last: the best at the league he means. Obviously. “It biases him. Always the Patriots.”

“You’re not biased, then?” Ryan asks.

“Off the record?” Madsen says.

Ryan laughs. “Sure,” he says.

“I don’t watch football,” Madsen says.

“Wait,” Ryan says. “You’re champion five years running and you don’t watch football?”

“Four,” Madsen says, apparently the only one who doesn’t think his fifth year is inevitable. Ryan’s looked at the standings. It’s inevitable.

“Do the guys know you don’t watch football?” Ryan asks.

“Yes,” Madsen says, with this little glitter in his eyes that adds, ‘and it infuriates them’, though he doesn’t say anything else.

“So you don’t watch football,” Ryan says. “What’s your edge?”

“On the record, I’m just very lucky,” Madsen says.

“And off the record?” Ryan asks.

“Many, many stats sites,” Madsen with a hint of a smile, and Ryan finds himself grinning back, feeling foolishly like they’re sharing a secret.


End file.
